In Flakes of Light
by PassionsInsanity
Summary: No5. Abby and Morgan find themselves drowning in desire for each other while a brutal and bloody serial killer rages in Odessa, Texas. Once there, it's clear that not everything is what it seems. Lives are put in danger and not everything stays the same.
1. Not yet near day

"Were there, below, a spot of holy ground, where from distress a refuge might be found, and solitude prepare the soul for heaven; Sure, nature's God that spot to man had given. Where falls the purple morning far and wide, _in flakes of light_ upon the mountain side; Where with loud voice the power of water shakes, the leafy wood, or sleeps in quiet lakes."

William Wordsworth

---

Chapter one. Not yet near day.

"_Wilt thou be gone? It is not yet near day: It was the nightingale, and not the lark, That pierced the fearful hollow of thine ear; Nightly she sings on yon pomegranate-tree: Believe me, love, it was the nightingale."_

William Shakespeare

---

October.

Friday.

Three weeks later.

Time unknown.

At first, she didn't want to believe that she was actually waking up. She was lying in a grass field, colourful flowers all around her; yellow, white, purple, blue, pink and red. The sun was shining bright, the sky was clear of any clouds, the temperature was more than comfortable, grass hoppers chirping in the ever-green grass, a ladybug crawled over her left leg. Sunlight permeated through the air and casted a warm, soft hand on her face. She was wearing her London boxers, matched with a white bra and white tank top, arms above her head, at ease, calm, peaceful and serene. This was how she imagined heaven to be. She smelled the fresh scent of grass but other than that, the air was pure. The scenery was vibrating, the repercussion of it pulsing through her body gently, without force.

Slowly, she woke up and opened her eyes. For a second, she saw the sun. After that, the fierce light blinded her, caused her pupils to minimalise and forced her eyelids to protect them. A blade of grass tickled her cheek as she bent her face away from the bright, fire-y orb. She smiled, at herself, at the grass, at the situation. Slowly, real carefully, she opened her eyes again. Her mind started, the clockwork settled down back into reality. Not yet, though, not yet. Her dream wasn't over yet, she didn't want to let it go. From between the grass, she saw the all too familiar eyes. The muscles around his eyes were relaxed; he was not angry. He merely looked at her. If she could have seen his face, she would have seen that he was smiling. Weakly. Lovingly. The eyes caught her gaze and locked them with his. He could look straight into her soul and it felt like he stabbed needles right into her eyes. He stripped her of her skin, exposing her, tying her up, giving her no way to escape. And there, again, there she was. She was lying in a grass flied, colourful flowers all around her; yellow, white, purple, blue, pink. And red. A lot of red.

Abby's eyes burst open when she felt the soft, heavy sheets on top of her body. The bed smelled different. There was no faint wet-dog scent, in fact, there was no weight pressing down on her leg from where Birdie always laid. The lavender air, one of the last English habits she still maintained, was gone. That was impossible, she washed the sheets two days ago, the scent should still be here, crawling up her nose, asking her to tango, comfortable and soothing. Then again, the sheets were dark blue, not her usual black, crimson red or deep-broken white. On the nightstand; no AM/FM alarm clock, but a Seiko. Two photographs, enclosed in an old brown frame; the first, three women, smiling, waving, laughing. The second, a man, and a football, and a young boy.

The wallpaper: pearlized white with a soft swirl design. Where was her vintage leaf medallion wallpaper with hand-painted dark cream design effects over a green and brown narrow stripe? On the floor, beautiful Nordic Berber black square carpet, but no vitality deluxe Michigan Pine laminate flooring. Abby rubbed her eyes after she sat up and looked around the room, realising she was wearing a white tank top. But it wasn't hers. When she ran a hand over her upper arm and shoulder, her fingers easily slid over the pallid skin and it was smooth and clean. As she realised her stupidity, she closed her eyes, smirked and fell back into the bed.

"Hey." Morgan stood in the entrance of the bedroom wearing black jogging pants and a simple, grey t-shirt. There was no door; the wall had been partly removed, creating an 'open bedroom'. She remembered her first impression of the apartment; open. Everything was open. An open kitchen, open bedroom, open living room, just like her own house. Even the bathroom was mostly open. The only things that held doors were the cabinets, cupboards, the toilet that didn't fit in the bathroom anymore because of the bathtub, and the closets.

"Hey." Abby stretched her arms above her head and let out a sigh.

"How'd you sleep?"

"Pretty good actually." She glanced at the clock on the night stand. It read half past seven, but the light that sneaked into the room told her differently.

"What time is it?"

"Half past ten."

She shot up again after her head snapped to meet his face. "What? Why didn't you wake me?" Rubbing her eyes, she started to get out.

"You were pretty out of it."

"God, stupid."

"Hé, hé, pretty lady, back in bed." Morgan's eyes ate her up, devoured her and briefly ran up Abby's muscular, long legs that she had swung out of bed. She hesitated, but only for a second. Derek raised his hand and pointed at his bed, sending her a stern glare before disappearing. He returned a couple of seconds later, holding two mugs with hot-steaming coffee, a smell that appealed to Abby, causing her mouth to water and she quickly pushed a pillow behind her back.

"Look at that. I bet you haven't had coffee in bed for a long, long time."

She snickered amused and gladly took the cup. "Careful now, I might marry you."

He laughed at her as he laid down next to her, his back against the wall, space in-between them. They weren't a couple, nor together. They were still colleagues that slept together because the lust and passion was too strong for them, unbearable, and they both excelled between the sheets.

"Careful Scott, I might say yes." The hand that brought the coffee mug to his sensuous lips halted and he smiled at himself. "Then again, you only actually look cute when you sleep, which is, what, four hours a night?"

Abby playfully smacked the back of his head but couldn't help to smile secretly. "I don't look cute."

"Yeah, kinda. I mean, you're usually all hard-ass and quirky. Garcia even said you reminded her of Lara Croft."

"What? Beautiful but deadly?"

"When you say it like that, you're more the female version of James Bond."

"Scott. Abby Scott." The woman snickered and kicked his leg, receiving a playful smack after.

"I'm not quirky."

"Yeah, you are."

"Shut up." She followed his gaze outside and suddenly noted the view. Morgan's apartment was only on the third floor, but from the window you could see the outstretched park, as if it lay at their feet. For several minutes, neither of them spoke. They just sipped on their coffee and watched the people in the park. Morgan broke his stare and looked at the person next to him, eyeing her shortly.

"Can I ask you what that is?"

"What what is?" Abby also broke away from the view and her eyes fell on his handsome, strong, muscular face.

"The necklace?"

"Which one?"

He lifted himself easily and pulled out a second necklace from under her shirt. "You carry two bullets around your neck?"

"It's a reminder."

"Of what?" His dark, abyss, bottomless-like eyes studiously looked at her, his face limpid and tranquil.

"Second chances."

She looked down and glanced at the other one. It was some sort of shape or form. You couldn't tell exactly what it was unless you knew. Unless someone told you what shape it represented. The form, the silver metallic outline, bird-like shaped and at the end, a small cross. It was fascinating how much meaning the thin lines held, empty space amid. She played with it for a few seconds, chewing on the thoughts in her head. It was a long necklace, just like the one that held the two bullet, and the moment she let it go again, it fell down, ending just below the lacuna between her breasts.

"Knowing the dark edge around the world, deep intense pain and the feeling of losing a loved one. It was a gift from a victim whose live I saved. Well, the SCU saved." She put the necklaces back in her top, where it belonged, safe and hidden away from the world like a secret knight in armour, a guardian angel.

"You got any plans for today?"

"No, why?"

He let the matter drop and Abby was secretly thankful. Yet, questions popped up in her head. Why didn't he ask further? Why didn't he press the matter? Was it because of the invisible boundaries they had created, lines not to be crossed transparently drawn around them? It was only a 'thing', a fling, little 'get together's'. Nothing else, nothing more. Was that the reason he wouldn't want to know more? Would she even want him to ask, to press against her shields, pushing her into a corner? Never before had her 'things' been so complicated. She felt at ease, comfortable around this man. She never had that, she never felt like that. Affairs had been simple, flings had been easy, it was in their nature to be because if they weren't, you might as well get married.

Morgan turned on his side, the covers sliding partially off Abby's body. "Well, I was thinking, maybe you could stick around. For a little while." His hand made her skin tingle in sensation as his long, black fingers trailed her white, English-pale leg.

"And do what?" She knew what he had in mind. Heck, it was the only thing that managed to get through the maze in her mind and was clear and vivid. Still, she enjoyed playing the game with him, like throwing balls. He leant over her when he placed the empty mug on the nightstand. He could have placed it on the dark wooden, small desk-like piece of furniture on his side of the bed. He could have, but that would have been less fun.

"All sorts of things." His mischievous smirk appeared on his face and his hot breath stung in Abby's face and neck. Morgan was laying on his side, eyes focused fiercely on her.

"Sure. So, what do you want to talk about?" He threw the ball. She caught it. She threw it back. He missed. Morgan chuckled shortly, flinging one arm over Abby's legs, lowering his body. With the other, he let his hand trace the cotton that covered her stomach.

"Why'd you join the Army?" He threw the ball back. She missed. Personal. She always sucked at personal.

"I didn't know what to do at the time. Figured I could do anything."

"Like making a difference?"

"What makes you think that?"

"After the Army" – his hand stopped teasing her senses and rested on her side – "you joined DEA. After that, the bureau, working under CIRG, SCU, now the BAU. Those are all jobs that allow you to do something good, make a difference. Help people."

"You ever seen Black Hawk Down?" Without knowing it, Abby had begun to caress the smooth skin on his well-muscled arms, painting circles and following unknown waves.

"Yeah."

Unwillingly, she bit her lip. What was she doing? 'Frankie, bad! No. 'Thing', Abby, 'thing'! Complication-free, relaxed, free!'. "I was there. You'd be a fool to think you could make a difference over there." In order to break away and temporarily avoid his piercing, penetrating eyes, she finished her coffee and placed the cup on the nightstand, next to Morgan's. She placed her arm back above her head and dared to look at him again.

"Do you think you made a mistake by joining the Army?"

"No, why? Are you-" She tightened the muscles around her mouth, frowning in the process as she hit Morgan again. "Don't do that."

"Sorry." He laughed at her, white teeth from between seductive lips. A seductive smile in general. "It's just, I've never heard you talk about it."

"Well, perhaps that's because I don't like talking about it. Besides, ever heard me talk about the SCU? Or anything not related to the case for that matter?"

"Perhaps you should."

"Should what?"

"Talk more."

"About what?"

"I don't know." He shrugged but his eyes held a flash that she couldn't quite place. Curiosity? Why would he want to get to know her? They both respected the boundaries they portrayed in the sand and he wouldn't dare to cross it. Neither would she, because they both knew that if they would, the other would be gone, dust in the wind. Then what was it? Was Morgan still under Hotch' orders to 'profile' her? No. She refused to believe that. He wouldn't break policy rules by sleeping with her and lying in the same bed as her because he was 'investigating a colleague'.

"Let people around you get to know you."

"What do ya wanna know?" There they went again. Caressing hands, skin turning hot and burning, the air filled itself with sexual arousal and tension.

"Your tattoo's, what do they all mean?"

"They all? You looked at yourself in the mirror recently?"

"Every day." His expression was blank when he spoke, but Abby smiled at him nonetheless. Their fingers danced with each other, touching, rubbing, fighting over which finger got what part of skin. They didn't even notice, it was the air, the energy around them, the kind and vibrant feeling that scorched away all their defences.

"Okay." Abby studied him for a couple of seconds before she spoke, formed theories, processed information. "Angel wings on the back of your neck. I'm guessing Icarus?"

"Fly too high and they melt."

"Mmh.. Touching. They also represent something else, something from your youth. Spread your wings and fly away, perhaps? The lion on your shoulder. Grotesque. Proud. But also fierce, strong. It's a symbol of your character." – He nodded, carefully impressed. – "Then the 'SSM'. ATF-time?"

"Pretty good."

"You have no idea who you're dealing with." Morgan snorted at her comment and pulled her down. She was now lying flat on her back, Derek hovering over her. She heard the dogs in the kitchen but she was too occupied to think about it. He leant forward and kissed the tattoo in her neck, his tongue shortly in contact with her skin.

"Army-time."

She didn't acknowledge his guess of the three black letters in her neck. They were clean and simple, nothing too curly or tribal-like. IMR. He moved to her right arm and lifted it, kissing the skin on the inside of her right upper arm before taking a good look at the tattoo. "Something religious, Catholic raised. You're obviously not religious anymore nor do you believe in God because you curse like hell. You clearly do not believe in God when you've seen the look on your face when studying a crime scene. And, this is not God, it's an angel. Looks like he's in some sort of frame, a picture? There's light all around it, I'm guessing, revelation?"

She looked at one of the first tattoo's she got, 'IMR' being first. "That's the archangel Jeremiel and he's actually in a mirror. Jeremiel means 'Mercy of God' and he's the angel that reviews our lives after we've crossed over."

"That's why he's in the mirror."

Abby nodded briefly. Suddenly, Derek lifted himself off the bed and pulled the sheets back. He grabbed her left leg and put his finger on the three words that decorated the inside of her ankle. "What does that mean?"

"There are two translations. One says that 'Abyssus abyssum invocate' means hells calls hell, other says it means deep calls to deep."

"Philosophical."

"Well, it's Latin."

Morgan smiled as her turned her around on her stomach, pulled the white fabric up and his hand nearly covered the large tattoo on her left shoulder and back. "A flock of birds. Birds represent freedom, but, they're in a flock so it could mean that you are actually a group-person but need to be able to go your own way." He paused and Abby turned back around, her shirt still halfway up her chest. She pushed him down on the bed and crawled on top. "It could also mean you're trying to break away from something."

"Do annoying bosses count?"

Morgan laughed and Abby pushed his shirt up, taking it off to reveal a body that was close to that of a perfect image of a Greek God. She ran her hands down his chest and lingered around his perfectly formed abs. As she licked her lips and shortly bit down in the flesh of his muscled chest, he chuckled again. When she looked up at him, he arched an eyebrow. "Tired of talking?"

"Yup. I need a fag." Abruptly, she got up and hopped of the bed, leaving the handsome man in confusion as she went in search of her coat.

---

November.

Wednesday.

Five days later.

12.20

She closed the door of the balcony after Bird the dog followed her back inside. She petted the dog's head, running her hand through his black and yellow-ish brown hairs. The dark-grey, grandeur Victorian oak made little sound as she made her way to the kitchen where Morgan was talking to his dog and eating an apple. Whilst entering the kitchen, only separated by the rest of the large room by a long dining table, several files sitting on top of it, she observed the man behind the counter. Her eyes trailed down his back (he was still shirtless,) and halted around his butt.

"Stop staring at my ass, Abs."

"Can't help it. Derek." She added his name whilst making a face and sat down on the counter, stealing a piece of apple from her colleague. She took one bite and gave the rest to Birdie. Clooney, Morgan's dog, quickly made his way over to the shepherd but by the time he got there, the piece of apple was already gone.

"He already ate."

"He did?" She looked down the moment Bird looked up and he barked at her. Abby widened her eyes and leant forward. "No way!" The dog enthusiastically approached her and jumped up. "What's this, you traitor? Having out with agent Morgan, now, are we? Eh?"

"Where did you get him?"

"Who, Bird?"

"Yeah. And, by the way, Bird is an exceptionally weird name for a dog."

"I found him in tied to a fence in an alley in Atlanta. I was actually looking for an infant, but I found him instead. Six weeks old, starving, dirty fur, scared shitless, a rope around his neck. He nearly bit my hand off. I took him home, got him better and he stayed with me ever since. That's what I never leash him."

"Why'd you name him Bird?"

"Why'd you call Clooney 'Clooney'?" Morgan laughed at her sudden onset of agitation and the interest and made his way over to her. Abby, in her turn, wrapped her legs around his waist and waited for him to make the first move.

"You, Abby Scott, have one super-smart dog. It's almost scary."

"I know. He passed every police test with flying colours before he was even two and a half."

"Should have named him Rex."

She smiled as his face got closer. Her fingers already teased the skin on his lower abdomen and his hands ran over her legs. But instead of crashing his lips on hers, he lifted her up and carried her back to the bedroom.

---

November.

Tuesday.

Six days later.

12.46

The air was thick with sex and their guilt-free lust. Profound sweaty bodies stuck together as if glued and soft moans filled the room, next to the moving sounds, a slight noise from a demurring bed and gasps for air when they did not left kisses on white-hot, burning skin. This time, it was slow. Slow; close to perfect and almost well planned. Everything just fell into place and Abby never once missed the usual fierce and possible rough sex. She had tried to deny it, before her mind was clouded with arousal and desire, but everything Derek Morgan did to her was good. It didn't matter if he kissed her breasts or ran a hand up her back, shivers rolled down her spine and the repercussion was felt deep within her bones. Whether he moaned silently and almost secretively or breathing down in her neck and ears, it turned her on and made her want to go crazy. All she could do was wrap her arms and legs around his fine, deity body and go with the flow.

She was never one for foreplay; she felt it was wasted time. Morgan thought differently, though he also wasn't the guy that wanted to spend hours on the action. With this man, she didn't mind. If he wanted her to stand on her head, she would. If he wanted her to jump around the room while singing 'I'm a virgin', she would. It was a good thing that Derek Morgan was the casual, old time kind of guy and was satisfied with the usual, oral act, because she would feel stupid if she had to stand on her head. Or run around singing 'I'm a virgin'. She would have to alter the lyrics, perhaps something in the line of 'I haven't been a virgin, since I was touched for the very first time, in nine-hihihigh ty-six, with his heartbeat, next to mine'. Morgan placed his hand on her forehead and tilted her head backwards and he bit her lips and chin and his kisses followed the line of her throat, scaring Madonna away and she suddenly realised how good he was and how insanely good he made her feel. She muttered 'Christ' under her breath and pulled his face close to her, totally oblivious to the rest of the world.

"No, no, no." She protested vehement when her cell phone started buzzing, the moans and gasps cut off by the sound of a vibrating cell phone on wood. She tried to ignore it, she tried to pull him back, return to the vigorous world they had created. Morgan leant down on his elbow and stopped, breathing heavily and she could see his heartbeat in the vein in his neck.

"Fuck!" Abby grabbed the device and looked at the display. Growling once she saw how it was, she flipped it open and answered. "What?!"

Morgan moved, resting his head on her chest, his hands under her arms. With her free hand, she traced his moist-covered skin on his back, following the black lines of the tattoo.

"_Well, hello to you too, Frankie."_

"What do you want?"

"_Am I interrupting?"_ She could hear it in the tone of his voice. They knew each other for so long, it wasn't a surprise to Abby that he knew what she was doing at the exact moment he called. "You're timing sucks, as usual, Miles."

"_Just wait till you hear this. We think that the Whitewater Creek killer struck again."_

"Are you shitting me?"

The Whitewater Creek killer was a white male, approximately between the ages of thirty and forty, socially skilled, sexually incompetent, and of above average intelligence. He grabbed, raped and stabbed thirteen young women already in the area of Whitewater creek. Not only did he violently raped and stabbed them, he also removed an organ. One of each woman. The victims were found in the Chattahoochee River around the last or first week of every month. It was one of the unsolved cases that the SCU handled with Abby whilst she was on the team.

"He disappeared for four months."

"_I know. It hasn't been confirmed yet. I'll keep you posted."_

Morgan started to lift himself of Abby when she put her arm around his neck, keeping him close. He lay down again, smiling and she kissed him soundlessly as Miles continued to talk to her.

"_Oh, almost forgot. Louis is counting on your for Thanksgiving."_

Louisa was Miles' insanely hot fiancée. She should envy the woman, but beside the idea of kissing Miles, she just couldn't. There had been no time when she placed herself between Miles and Abby, forcing him not to go out, not to drink until he didn't even know where his feet were. Better yet, the further Miles' and Louisa's relationship got steadier; Louisa would often go out herself whenever Abby and Miles had their usual 'hang out night' at his apartment. She was pure, pure and good and Abby was happy that Miles had found such a woman that understood his nerdiness, his flaws and his blatant way of expression himself and/or speaking about certain subjects.

Abby returned Morgan's smile as he moved down her neck. "Oh, damn it, I can't."

"_What do you mean you can't?"_

"I sortta promised Cal I would come. I owed him, he forced me, it wasn't really my fault. And I can't ditch him, he'll have my balls and put my head on a stick."

"_You'll manage without the head, it's the balls that are important."_

"Fuck you Miles."

Her friend chuckled on the other side of the line. _"Love you too, enjoy your day."_

She hung up and let the phone fall of the bed after she locked her lips with Morgan's again, hungry and desirous, craving for more.

---

"_There is only one time when it is essential to awaken. That time is now."_

Buddha


	2. In quiet waters

Chapter two. In quiet waters.

"_Reasoning at every step he treads, man yet mistakes his way, whilst meaner things, whom instinct leads, are rarely known to stray."_  
William Cowper

---

November.

Monday. Three days later.

08.34

Abby arrived at the Headquarters, feeling disorientated and chaotic. Coroner Julianna Morris had confirmed; the victim that was found Friday, floating in the Chattahoochee River, raped, stabbed and missing an organ. The Whitewater Creek killer was back. Miles kept her up to date about the case. Like all the cases that Abby dealt with that remained unsolved, they travelled with her, everywhere she went, like a leech, sucking at her thoughts and attention at unwanted times. Like now, she was late, there was already a coffee stain on her black jeans and when scratching the itching skin under her neck, she realised she was wearing the deep-periwinkle blue shirt underneath a black waistcoat backwards. In the elevator, she managed to recollect herself and gather her thoughts. She had to focus now, focus on the BAU, the team, the new case. If there was a new case.

She passed JJ by on her way to the unit, the main room. The room that felt like a church, a harbour they could shore and rest in between their journeys. The classy blonde held a stack of files in her arms and a cup of coffee in her hand. Her footsteps followed shortly after each other and the clicking sound of her heels was like the ticking of a clock, repetitive and constant.

"Morning JJ."

She hadn't noticed Abby get off the elevator and looked up at the sound of her name being called. "Hey Frankie. How was your weekend?"

"It was okay. How was yours?" Abby halted in the door opening, holding the thick glass doors open whilst she kept her eyes on JJ, who stood in the entrance of her office.

"Well spend."

"And well earned I'd say." Abby eyed the stack of files in her arms.

JJ chuckled at her comment and both women turned to enter through the doors they kept open. Immediately, Abby was greeted by the early working sounds. It was almost quiet and soothing compared to the Special Crimes Unit in Atlanta. Then again, it had mostly been her and her team making all the noise, yelling over the static rush of sounds, voices, ventilators in computers blowing desperately, printers begging for more paper, keyboards sighing under the pressure of constantly being hit. There was something in common though; some agents looked like they never left and her eyes flashed to Hotch' office on the upper level. But, as usual, there were also the agents that looked fresh, brand spankin' new.

Morgan and Reid were on their way to the small kitchen on the right of Abby, that provided them a steady supply of caffeine. She spotted Prentiss behind her desk, her eyes studying the piece of paper she held in front of her. In need of another coffee-boost, she followed her two colleague's and overheard their conversation. They were, as per usual, bickering like an old married couple.

"How can you not believe in magic?"

"Because, Reid, you simply cannot create something out of nothing, thin air, just like that." Morgan snapped his fingers as he talked and she could tell he was getting frustrated. She couldn't blame him, it was early and Reid had been nagging the team to be his test person after Abby turned him down in Boston. He stated that he could hold a glass of water upside down above someone's head without the water falling out. None of the team members were willing to actually see if it worked by letting him try it on them.

"Actually, it's not thin air." Both agents looked over their shoulders as they reached the kitchen counter, hands finding familiar moves to the coffee mugs and pot. Reid grinned excitedly and Morgan in annoyance – or was it surrender? – briefly raised his eyes to the sky. "Here we go."

"Everything consists of molecules. Thin air doesn't exist, thin moleculed air does."

"See! Magic exists Morgan, I'm telling you. If you would just let me prove it to you..." The young genius smirked victoriously at the elder agent and crossed his arms before his chest.

"Oh, I'm not saying that. I'm merely correcting agent Morgan here" – she flashed him a sweet smile – "I don't believe you can alter or changes molecules, like pulling a card from behind someone's ear, with just the power of, what? Your mind? That card had to have been somewhere and something, something scientifically proven must have made it move. The wind, a person, electricity." Whilst discussing, the three profilers made their coffee.

"See!" She laughed at Morgan's satisfied smirk on his gorgeous face and Reid cried out indignantly, spilling sugar on the counter. He knocked against Abby's arm when he grabbed a paper tissue, causing coffee to splash over the edge of her cup, on the surface beneath her hand and over her fingers.

"Damn it."

Morgan snorted at their nerdi-ness and shook his head.

"Sorry."

"Don't be."

"Well, this looks like a happy, nerdy bunch." Emily Prentiss joined the merry group in their morning ritual and friendly smacked Reid on the shoulder. He, in his turn, also spilled coffee on the kitchen counter. He turned to Abby after he dejectedly put his mug down. "Can I shoot her?"

"I want first dibs."

"We can take turns."

Prentiss made a face and made herself some coffee within a matter of seconds. "Morning Frankie."

"Morning Emily." Both women faked a smile around their lips and sipped on their coffee.

"Hey, anybody got any plans for Thanksgiving?"

"If we don't have work to do, I'm flying back to Chicago. Visit the family."

"We always have work to do."

"You're telling me you haven't booked a ticket to Las Vegas to see your mom?" Morgan stared at Reid intensively and took a sip from the steaming mug. Reid rotated his head to look at Abby. "What about you, what's your Thanksgiving going to be like?"

"Painful."

Prentiss chuckled loudly and sat down on the table, one hand resting on her leg, the other arm on top of it, holding the blue cup. "Why? What evil plans does your family hold for you?"

"Well, it's not my family, but I'm spending my Thanksgiving with two walking lie-detectors, one whom is a British bastard and utterly determined to uncover me, the other an excellent shrink and she's great in showing empathy and his sixteen year old daughter who, against all God's gracious wisdom, decided to bring her boyfriend."

"Oh, I see." Prentiss grinned at her colleague. "You're gonna be the slaughtered turkey on the table."

"Filled with Thanksgiving stuffing." Reid added.

The group chuckled and set to leave. Reid tossed the spoon her used on the light surface of the kitchen counter, next to the white piece of paper.

"And I thought I had it bad with Ambassador Prentiss and her friends."

The comment completely passed her by. Abby stared at the coffee stained cloth and the spoon, two separate objects that struck a nerve, rang a church bell and the night train hissed as it stopped for her at the station, the devils shades coming from underneath in the form of smoke, rapidly and fast. Her senses became so sharply aware of the revelation that was displayed before her that it hurt. She felt as if she had been sitting on a subway and the train suddenly came to a brutal halt whilst a bucket of ice-cold water rained down on her.

"Frankie? You okay?" Reid had stopped midway his walk back to his desk and studiously looked at her. She picked up the spoon and put it down again. She repeated her actions several times, her eyes gazing, fixed on the silver spoon and the white paper when meaningful words popped into her head, got stuck in the spider's web and suddenly added up.

"Slaughter. Thanksgiving." She placed her coffee back on the white, smooth surface and rushed to her desk, brushing past a halting Reid. Feverishly, she grabbed one of the carbon boxes that were stored under the left part of her desk, angled ninety degrees from the main part. She emptied the contents on the piece of furniture and her hands sought through files, grabbing several photographs. Morgan, Reid and Prentiss stared at her, unsure of what to do, not sure of what was going on.

"Scott?" His voice was clear but she didn't respond to him. Usually, she would have as Morgan's voice always penetrated right through the thick smoke that represented her thoughts. Instead, she stared at the thirteen girls before her. Abruptly, she spun around on her feet, still holding the pictures and hurried up the stairs to Hotch' office, skipping several steps as she ran upstairs.

Without thinking twice, she burst into Hotch' office and her supervisor looked up startled.

"Hotch, sir, I gotta go to Atlanta."

"Atlanta? Why?" His pen still hovered in mid-air as he stared at her, his reminiscent, piercing eyes gazing deep into her own.

"It's an old case I worked with SCU and the perp killed again, last Thursday, and I think I know who and how he did it but I'm not sure and I haven't got anything of the latest crime scene, for all I know it could have been the postman but seriously, I think I know who and why and how and that would put fourteen souls to rest." Abby was rambling, the photographs waving in the air as she moved her arms.

"Can't you do it over the phone?"

"I don't – I'm not really sure, I need to see this guy, talk to him. I need to see his house. Plus, I don't have the entire case file, I don't have the evidence to see if it adds up not to mention I haven't seen the latest crime scene nor the victim and it could all be different, he's been on a vacation, probably went to jail or something and I-"

Hotch cut her off abruptly, raising his free hand in the air, while temporarily closing his eyes. "Okay, okay, I get it. It's a genius thing. Go. But if we have a new case-" Abby was already back at the door yelled over her shoulder.

"I know, I know, back like a loyal dog. Thanks Chief!" She ran down again, rushing back to her desk. She pushed all the files on her desk in her backpack, making it even heavier, as her other hand pressed the speed dial button and she pressed the device against her ear. "Miles, it's me. I think I know who did it. I'm flying to Atlanta, I'll be there in.. Say three hours."

"_I start__ the coffee and spread the word."_

She hung up, pocketed her cell and swung her heavy backpack over her shoulder, snatching her go-bag from underneath her desk. Without another word, she hastily jogged away.

---

November.

Thursday.

Four days later.

15.38

Abby didn't even bother to knock. Hotch's door was open, his head bowed, leaning on two fingers as he was working on a report. Or reading one. Or doing research. Perhaps something 'BAU leader' stuff. She rarely knew it with this man, he always had work to do. She wondered if that was really the fact, or that he would find himself work to do. She stuck her head around the door post. "Hey Chief."

Hotch looked up, slightly startled, but he dropped his paperwork when his eyes found hers. "Hey."

"Just reporting back to duty sir." She faintly saluted him and snorted at her own joke.

"How was Atlanta?"

"We got him."

There he went again. In the fraction of a second, his brows knitted together. Confusion. Why would he be confused? "Good."

Abby smiled, almost apologetic as her brain solved the riddle, and nodded before leaving again.

JJ's office was somehow, despite the growing mountains of files and requests, light and spacious. It seemed clean, dust-free and clear of the horror that the files on her desks brought with them. The F.B.I. casings that contained blood and disgust, were neatly organized in stacks; three on her desk, a row behind her on the table and several other piles in the corner on another build structure. As usual, JJ sat behind her desk, her head leaning on the three fingers of her right hand as her eyes went over the file that lay before her, spread out like a nightmare. For a second, Abby stopped and observed the woman. She was still as classy and elegant as the first time she had seen her. Her blonde hair was still bright, her hell blue eyes still vibrant and her skin still glowing. Sometimes, Abby looked in the mirror and saw the blood, the morbid things that could happen to a face or body, the things she had seen done to a face or a body. The dirt, the touch of a stranger, the damage of an acquaintance. Time after time, Abby would look at her and wonder how she stayed so clean.

She knocked on the door and JJ looked up. "Hey."

"Hey. When'd you get back?" Jennifer motioned for Abby to sit down in the chair standing in front of the desk and she sat down.

"Just now."

"How was Atlanta?"

"We got him. I heard there was a case."

"Yeah, triple brutal homicide in a small town in Utah."

"Why didn't you guys call me?"

JJ shrugged, but a smile followed soon after. "It wasn't that big, we could handle it. Besides, I heard you were far too busy anyway."

"That's not the point. I promised Hotch that if there was a case, I'd come back. I should have been here, with the team."

"Frankie, it's okay. We handled it. It's fine."

The chestnut brown haired woman sighed and opened her mouth but JJ beat her to it. "Abby, I get it. You're still the new kid. We still treat you as the new kid. Right now, you're probably thinking that we're thinking you put Atlanta and your old team above us. We don't. Honestly. Hotch specifically told me not to call you unless we would really need you. We didn't and the result is that we've both caught our killers."

Abby studiously eyed the woman before her, a slight tension in the muscles on her forehead. "Why would Hotch tell you not to call me?"

JJ looked uneasy and she temporarily broke eye contact. "I kept Hotch up to date about your movements in Atlanta."

"Oh God." She covered her face with her hands and slid down the chair. "Did he watch it?"

The other agent chuckled amused at the sight on the other side of the desk. "Everybody did."

"Damn it. I hate fucking journo's." There was a short silence as Abby pondered about all the things she hated about reporters and journalists or the press in general. "Okay, so, on a scale of one to ten, how dead am I?"

"I don't know." The blonde smiled again. "We all found it quite amusing."

"We all? Everybody saw it? And amusing?! Are you kidding me? They made a friggin' carnival festival out of it!"

"Have you seen the ending footage they made for you yet?"

"They made a what?" Abby groaned in frustration and abruptly stood up, taking a few steps around the chair. JJ rotated her computer screen as Abby got behind her desk. Within a few seconds, JJ found the material she needed and pressed play in the video player that she had caused to appear on her screen.

Hannah Davids appeared on screen, the Channel 2 Action news logo in the upper left corner. The reporter was typical, standard press woman. Charming red jacket, a probable matching red skirt. She had black hair and a tanned skin, a sharp chin and green-brown eyes, perfectly applied make-up. She was standing in front of a side building of the F.B.I. in Atlanta, were the SCU was stationed.

"_I am standing in front of the Federal Building from which the SCU operates, where there has been a lot of activity recently. Whether you watch the news or not, Atlanta knows that former SCU member, supervisory special agent Abby Franklin Scott is back. The reason why she's back on Atlanta ground is the Whitewater Cre__ek Killer, whom struck again eight days ago. Scott, or also lovingly called Frankie by the public, was transferred a couple of months ago to the Behaviour Analysis Unit in Quantico, Washington, but the body of Allison Montharm that was discovered recently, put her on a plane back to the city she has protected for over eight years. She arrived Monday morning and later that day, a new, altered profile was released of the Whitewater Killer. For three days, a massive hunt was organized to catch the person responsible for the deaths of fourteen women. That chase ended this afternoon in a car chase in downtown Atlanta. The Special Crimes Unit under direction of SSA Angie Wills, tracked down the suspect and as seen, Frankie and her team apprehended the man, Charleston Kingsley, who later confessed to the murders. Before she left, Channel 2 news spoke to her."_

Whilst Hannah Davids gave the watcher a short summary of what had happened in the last couple of days, footage that the channel shot was shown; Abby arriving at the Headquarters, her and her team walking around the crime scene, later showed in the cafe where most of the victims were last seen. Then followed the video of the car chase seen from the chopper flying above them. The second the news' minivans screeched to a halt, cameras were running and caught the SCU forcefully and vehemently arresting Kingsley on tape. Suddenly, Abby recognised herself as she walked out of the federal building, Miles, Cuba and Lewy next to her.

"_Frankie! Frankie! Do you have a minute?"_

"_Hannah Davids, still alive and kicking I see."_

"_Congratulations on capturing the Whitewater Creek Killer."_

"_Thank you."_

"_Rumours have been going around that you already knew who the killer was when you arrived back in your city."_

"_Uhm, I had my suspicions."_

"_What made you realise who it was?"_

" _Magic, spoons and Thanksgiving plans."_

"_Magic?"_

"_It's a long story. We're just glad that we've got another killer of our streets."_

"_Speaking of which, Frankie-"_

"_I know what you're gonna ask, Davids, don't."_

"_I have to, we all want to know. Does this mean you're back?"_

"_No, this does not mean that I am back. This, my visit, merely means that I assisted the SCU on this case as it was an old case of mine. It there is any conclusion to draw from this, it's that FBI agency's work together rather well."_

"_Frankie, we've all seen the images, everybody knows it, you're back in Atlanta. Everybody is talking about it, and that raises the one question that's been haunting around ever since you left. Why were you transferred?"_

"_You know I'm not going to answer that Davids."_

"_C'mon Frankie, throw me a bone."_

"_Okay, between you and me? Those guys at Quantico, they made a mess of things, a complete mess. They needed someone to clean it up."_

"_Alright Frankie, still your usual self. Happy Thanksgiving, enjoy your day."_

"_Likewise Hannah, see ya."_

"_And that's it, the end of the fairy-tale. Frankie Scott flew back late in the afternoon and Atlanta is once again, left behind. But, despite all of this, the question remains, when will Abby Scott return to her beloved city?"_

"Holy mother of God. This isn't even a carnival anymore; they turned into some sort of soap opera."

"Face it Frankie, the media loves you."

"That's because I always blurt out the most ridiculous stupidity."

JJ laughed at her when her cell phone started ringing. Abby thanked her before leaving to let JJ get back to work. She walked back into the hall and headed towards the unit where she was sure she would meet laughs and chuckles and annoying comments. She had snuck in minutes earlier and managed to dodge Emily Prentiss when the black-head came out of the elevator. She sighed before entering and embraced herself.

"Oh thank God, we are saved now!" Prentiss was the first to notice her and when Abby took a better look, she noted that she was the only one present of the team, that is, next to Hotch whom had locked himself up again behind the paper hills and gruesome deeds.

"I hate the press." She dumped her backpack on her desk and looked around. The usual busy buzz was eradicated, gone, dissipated. There were four more agents in the room, making it a total of six present.

"What happened here? Where's everybody?"

"Thanksgiving. Morgan's in Chicago, Reid's in Vegas. Even Rossi left early."

"Right. Hey, weren't you supposed to be with your mom or something?"

"I'm prolonging my execution. But I guess that goes for the both of us."

Abby snorted and she sat down, rubbing her hands over her face. Prentiss wrapped up what was left on her desk and leant back in her chair, noticing Abby's tired expression. "Yup. Thanksgiving."

"What about I take you to a bar, we'll get irrationally drunk, crash the car and spend our night at the police station?"

The dark-haired woman laughed. "That sounds like a plan. C'mon, first round's on me."

As both woman rose from their chairs, JJ entered the door. By now, Abby could tell what kind of case it was by the look on her face. This time, it was bad. A deep, stern glare, a profound frown on her forehead, her eyebrows knit together into a bunch of tension. The hardened ice in her hell blue eyes caused Prentiss and Abby to stop and wait till she approached them.

"Bad?" Prentiss' eyes sought JJ's but she avoided them by looking at Abby as she gave them the brown containers of death.

"Very." The blonde walked up the stairs and as Prentiss and Abby headed towards the conference room, JJ knocked on Hotch' office.

Abby quickly opened the file, her eyes flashing over the words. She and Prentiss had stationed themselves in the round table room, waiting for Hotch and JJ whom they knew would arrive soon. Before she had the time to start thinking about what the file told her, Hotch and Jennifer already entered.

"Looks like we'll have to cancel all our Thanksgiving plans." Hotch' mien was as hard and fierce as JJ's had been and he sat down while JJ quickly gathered the needed information to brief the team.

"Would it be inappropriate to say that I'm not at all that sad about that?" Abby gave Prentiss an agreed raise of her eyebrows and a sorrow smile.

"Odessa, Texas just called. They believe they have a serial killer on their hands. In the past four months, in every first week of the month, young couples were found murdered in their homes."

As JJ talked, she pressed a button on the remote and a picture popped up of a happy-looking couple.

"This are Tally and Elvis Carlton, they were found murdered three days ago. According to the neighbours, they were supposed to be on vacation, which is the reason it took them so long to be discovered. Elvis Carlton was tortured" – a picture of the wounds and damage to his body was shown – "severely before he was stabbed in the heart. Tally Carlton had defensive wounds on her arms and face; she was shot from close range in the back of her head."

JJ addressed to the three agents before her and glanced from one to the next whilst pictures kept appearing on the screen. The crime scene photos were bloody, messy and disturbing. Elvis Carlton was tied to the bed, Tally Underlove to a chair in the corner so she could watch the spectacle.

"There are reasons to believe that she tried to escape and was killed accidentally."

"What makes them think that?" The media liaison found Hotch' eyes and intertwined with them.

"Of the three other couples, two women survived. The first couple that was murdered, Elizabeth and Nick Sorton"- more pictures, more horrendous death and crimson red blood painted on the walls like wall paper – "Elizabeth was found in the hall. A blood trail suggests that she was moving out of the bedroom when she was hit on the head with a blunt object several times. Around the same time, Nick Sorton's throat was cut."

"Messy, sloppy, different mo's , are you sure this is the same guy?" Abby held a few pictures in her hand, studying as JJ talked. "Molly Underlove and Travis Buckbee were the second couple. Molly survived the attack, but her husband was murdered. Molly Underlove was blindfolded and the Unsub talked to her while Travis Buckbee was murdered. He was shot in the chest several times. Then, there were Ginger Williams and Langdon Fulton, Langdon was stabbed in the throat with Ginger in the room. She has, by now, been admitted to San Antonio State Hospital. Both women said that the Unsub was dressed in black, rather short, wearing a black ski mask. He surprised them after entering through the backdoor, holding a gun to the women's head. He blindfolded both victims and guided them upstairs."

"He blindfolded the men too?"

"Yes."

"That's unusual." Prentiss glanced at the photos and looked around. "He tortures his victims, he talks to the women, why would he blindfold them?"

"Perhaps he knew them?"

"Or he didn't want to see them looking at him." Abby mumbled when she laid the pictures before her on the large round table and let her eyes go over them.

"How are they sure that this is the same Unsub?"

JJ rotated back to the screen and used the remote to show four wedding rings. "When Molly Underlove asked for the personal effects of her husband, she found out that the wedding ring was not the one she gave to her husband. PD then discovered that all victims were wearing the same rings; nine carat gold rings with the same inscription, '_for my love, for you'._

---

"_Only in quiet waters do thing mirror themselves undistorted. Only in a quiet mind is adequate perception of the world." _

Hans Margolius


	3. Personal impulses

Chapter three. Personal impulses.

_"Crime was long concerned only with brutal, solitary and personal impulses. But nowadays the murderers and robbers are forming ranks; they obey discipline; they have given themselves a code and a morality; they work in gangs with well devised schemes." _

Louis Blanc

---

November.

Thursday.

21.16

It had been a long flight. Six hours on a plane with JJ, Prentiss, Hotch and Rossi, who joined them at the airport. Morgan was still in Chicago, he couldn't get a flight till the next early morning. Reid would fly in later that night, arriving shortly after midnight. Without Reid's usual outbursts of facts and the comfortable mood he created, Abby felt trapped with the arrogant Dave Rossi, the austere Aaron Hotchner, the always professional Emily Prentiss and the focused Jennifer Jareau. She felt tensed and uneasy, which normally caused her to become sarcastic and make inappropriate jokes. She felt herself biting her tongue several times during the plane ride in order not to get the looks. Reid would have made it easier, somehow. It was part of their relationship; he always made things easier with his apologetic but often amused smile, as if he truly understood her. Perhaps he did. Abby wasn't sure, yet she knew that whenever being around this man, she felt she was able to let her guard down and make those perverted, ill-placed jokes and comments. It was her way of dealing with the intense horror that was printed on the photographs before them.

Abby had been with the BAU for three months now and Rossi's studious eyes still followed her wherever she went. She still felt them burn into her shields, not even sure if he was actually looking at her. It was his entire demeanour, his attitude. She respected his arrogance, a man that knew so much, accomplished that many things, had the utter right to be arrogant. It was one of the things she admired. Despite, or maybe because of her intelligence, she always tried to hide the fact that she knew the things she knew because there was an unwritten law that she shouldn't know it yet. She was too young, too inexperienced to know. Then again, she had seen so many things, worked with so many all-knowing, experience people. And of course, there was the SCU. Atlanta's people worshipped the department, once again made clear by the footage Hannah Davids had made when they finally caught the Whitewater Creek Killer. It was only because of Abby's usual 'quirkiness', as Morgan would probably say, that the press was so fond of her. She said what she had to say, she implied the things that she wanted people to know and she always managed not to say the things she knew she couldn't and was always able to avoid her boss to get pissed and fire her. Perhaps she was merely an object of interest to Dave Rossi, for he usually worked with people that at least tried to be professional.

Crime rates had spiked when Abby first joined the SCU, back in 2006. That was over three years ago and they had fought hard against the rising homicides, reducing the numbers, lowering the red lines on presentation boards. They helped reorganize, coach and structure local police departments and units like SWAT and DEA. Wills trained hostage negotiators, Miles created new software, Ricardo 'Cuba' Pino visited primary schools to give 'crime prevention' lectures, presentations and demonstrations. Holly Lewis, or Lewy, who was like Abby, former DEA, working with the unit for almost seven years, took Abby with her on lectures and lessons with anti-crime units and visits to local PD's. None of them were actually Atlanta born and raised. Wills was from Detroit and transferred nine years ago to Atlanta, shortly before she started the SCU with Trevor Harrison. It was their baby, they practically created it. There was a lot of influence from other forces, basically, the Special Crimes Unit was a swirled mixture of Anti-Crime, the BAU, hostage negotiation tactics, counterterrorism, some CIA (Harrison was ex-CIA), a little of human resources and plain and simple 'homicide detective knowledge'.

Cuba, as the names says, was born in Havana, Cuba and immigrated with his family twenty years ago. He was thirteen at the time. After thirteen years and sick of Miami, already a police officer, he applied to join the FBI. Cuba was the first handpicked agent to join the SCU, after Wills and Harrison decided to set up a new team, 'demoting' the old team as 'secondary'. Later in 2002, Gina 'Angel' Angeholis and Ben 'Laker' Ooster joined the team after being with the FBI for only four years. Holly Maria 'Lewy' Lewis, born in 1980 in New York, was asked to join shortly after she joined the Bureau. She was the youngest in FBI experience to ever join. Milo 'Miles' Bronckovic was born in Homerville, Georgia and moved with his family to the city when he was six. When he was ten, his sister was killed by a drunk driver. Miles studied Computer Sciences before he and Abby joined the Army in 2000. He was the only handpicked member of the SCU that actually had three years of experience, as a technical analyst, back in 2006. In 2008, he started the profiling trainings and became a profiler later that year. Wills and Harrison took a lot of heat from their superiors by asking juniors to the team. They had explained that that was the only way to 'groom' them into becoming successful agents, to see the things they needed to see, to hear the things they needed to hear, the react faster than a speeding bullet and to understand better than anyone else. One of the first press critiques was that they were exposing kids to abhorrent danger that they did not need to know yet, perhaps even 'creating serial killers'. Six months later, those critiques changed and they got nothing but gratitude and admiration from the pres, the public and the city.

Abby was the one that was supposed to replace Trevor Harrison, whom was set for retirement the next year. He died in 2006, when he, Angel and Laker walked into a trap. The suspect they were chasing, Paul Newman, targeted random (Jewish) people in the own homes and gassed them. He led the three agents to his safe house where one of the victims was held, but it was a trap and they died. After the traumatic event that caused the remaining five agents to grow extremely close, no one was directly asked to join SCU's primary team anymore. Wills set up one more team, a fourth for interns and trainees, and left all the applications to David McCallister, the Section Chief, but the first team had no new members ever since that day.

Abby sighed and rested her head against the window as she pondered about the fact what Morgan's absence did to her. No longer was she able to secretly admire the muscles that came from under the edge of his sleeves. She couldn't occupy her mind by exhaustively studying his face, wondering what dark secrets laid within his deep-buried abyss that were so profoundly protected by his piercing and fierce eyes. With Reid not present either, it was up to Abby to state the facts. They had their intelligence level in common, but that was pretty much it. She was never the one to spit out the facts, almost oblivious as Reid did. She preferred to fill her head with something else. Something dark and rotten, despisable, evil and obnoxious. Her night train. Her guiding devil's hand in the night where she was blinded by the shadows that were wrapped around her head.

The word 'sadism' had made its way onto the plane, Rossi being the first to speak the word. The UnSub tortured the males, and his intentions were to leave to women alive. The first question was noted, why? Why would he want the women to live? It also allowed them to draw certain conclusions. He was confident that they wouldn't i.d. him, and he was most likely wearing a ski mask or something like that. Then there were the variating mo's, the murder weapons that were used; a knife and a gun, but differently used every time. Why? There were no direct links between the victims, they didn't know each other. There were ligature marks around the wrists and ankles of the victims, which was his way to control them. But how did he get that far without being overpowered? It became rapidly clear; they had to visit the crime scene and try to determine what happened, reconstruct; which actions had taken place and in what order?

Rossi and Abby were ordered to go to the crime scene. Prentiss, JJ and Hotch would start victimology and set up shop. Tomorrow, they would pay the coroner a visit, and with more manpower, be able to cover more ground like interviewing Molly Buckbee and Ginger Williams, the two survivors of previous attacks. At the airport, two SUV's were already parked neat the exit for the BAU team to proceed. For a change, Abby was the one behind the wheel, Rossi sitting next to her as he tried to go through the files again, but the darkness around them didn't cooperate, and Prentiss, JJ and Hotch headed towards the police department.

There was an uncomfortable air in the car, lurking around the corner like a robber ready to jump you anytime. Abby didn't need the GSP that was installed in the car; she studied the maps and knew the addresses. Rossi paid little attention to her and left her alone in her nervousness and fidgeting. She needed a smoke. Badly.

"Something must have set this guy off. You don't go from torture and killing in one day, something must have happened."

Abby shortly glanced in Rossi's direction; his long face, the clean-cut beard showing little signs of his age whereas his hair held small, white strokes, the way it looked like his jaw was pushed more to the left, one eye partially hiding underneath the skin above it. If he hadn't held this strong, determined, almost stern look in his face, she would have taken him for a lunatic. He talked to himself regularly, hence she didn't felt the urge to reply. Which was a good thing, because she wasn't sure of what to say. She felt intimidated, this man, he went further than just looking at persons, he was looking for their soul. And she knew that he couldn't see hers, not when she was on the job. Her soul was something she left behind the moment she closed her front door behind her.

She chewed on her lower lip, a tick she had since she was a kid. It always came up when she felt nervous or cornered. She wasn't sure which of the two she was feeling right now. She was leaning towards nervous, but when the elder legend next to her looked at her, his eyebrows slightly raised, she definitely felt cornered.

"What do you think?"

"Me?" It came out before she even realised it and she briefly returned his stare.

"Yeah, you."

"Uhm, I think there's a lot more we don't know yet. This crime, it feels like something totally different."

Rossi merely 'Mmh'ed' and continued to observe the pictures. At some point, about ten minutes away from the crime scene, he closed the files, sighed and looked through the window after again, glaring in Abby's direction. "How was Atlanta?"

"We caught him."

"How's Wills doing?"

"Uhm, she's okay. I guess."

"You didn't stay in touch?"

"Not really."

"I met her twice. Once in oh-one, when I was researching a man she helped arrest and again, during my book tour in oh-six. How's she been holding up after Harrison's death?"

Abby rubbed her upper leg with her right hand, the other holding the steering wheel. "She changed. We all did."

"I understood they were both like a mentor to you."

"They were."

"It's a shame what happened."

"Sure is."

"Do I make you nervous?" The question startled her and caused Abby to look at the man sitting next to her. "No offense Rossi, but you're kinda intimidating."

"I'm sorry."

"Stop with the looks, that helps." Abby looked at the road as she turned the corner and missed the amused, small smile around Rossi's lips.

Cal Lightman, a deception expert in Washington whom she worked with, once told her that she was an artist. He hadn't come across many persons that managed to hide their emotions that well. She had made a joke about her line of work, retorted a personal impelling comment and he replied with another joke before switching back to whatever work they were doing. It was how they worked together. It was their way of communicating. Right now, she didn't mind and she blessed Lightman and his great mind. Abby stopped the car in front of a two-story house. The house just like the one next to it, and the one next to that. Abby always hated townhouses and their lack of individuality. That's why she preferred detached houses. In Atlanta, she owned a quite luxurious loft close to her work and just outside the city, a small cottage where she went on her weekends off.

The house in question looked cheap but she figured it was a great place to start for the couple Tally and Elvis Carlton. As they got out of the car, both Abby and Rossi glanced around the neighbourhood. The door on the driver's side of a green Saab parked a few feet in front of them opened, to which both agents reacted. A woman stepped out, wearing a light brown uniform, her hair in a neat ponytail and her badge shimmered in the street lights. She approached the two and smiled.

"You must be the FBI." Her Texas accent was thick and suddenly, Abby loved her own, English accent, thanking her mother. She walked up to Abby and extended her left hand. That's when Abby saw the faint difference between the colour of her right hand and her tanned face. "Deputy Peggy Sue."

"Agent Abby Scott, this is my colleague, David Rossi."

Peggy Sue shook Rossi's hand and he too reacted to the odd touch of plastic. "It's just for show, really. Thank you for coming so quickly. This one has got us scratching our ears with our elbows."

The Brit stared at the fake arm for a second, cocking her head to the right as she did. "Iraqi present?"

"Yeah, how'd you guess?"

"They've got bits and pieces of everyone over there. I'm pretty sure my toe's still out there, tanning in the sun, enjoying a Margarita."

The women looked at each other for a couple of seconds and a mutual understanding was established and Deputy Sue started to walk towards the house, Abby and Rossi next to her. When arriving at the front door, she fished a key from her pocket.

"I was under the impression that Sheriff Mark Donaldson would meet us here." Rossi said.

"Oh, yeah, the sheriff. He's at the station. He's eh.. Well, let's just say that if you put his brains in a bumblebee, he would fly backwards."

"I see." Sue paid no further attention to Rossi as she unlocked the front door of the house and lifted the yellow tape that was placed across the door. "After you."

The stench of rotting corpses immediately penetrated Abby's nose and she coughed as the thick, dusty air clouded her throat. The deputy switched on the lights and uncovered a contradictory home. On the outside, it looked miserable and shabby, the inside was once tidy, organised and cosy. The wallpaper was a strange combination of Chesapeake wallpaper with hearts, stars and berries on a vine with a light tan sponged background and a dark brown, wooden-like border with three pictures repeating itself; the Swan's Song Inn, the Horseshoe Inn and the Cat Nap Inn. The largest room in the house was the living and dining room on their right. The kitchen on their left, a small stairs leading to the second floor, dirty black carpet under their feet.

"Do you want me to walk you through?" Sue had lingered around the entrance and seemed uneasy.

"No, it's okay." Abby smiled friendly and nodded once. She slipped on a pair of blue gloves, following Rossi's lead, whom looked over his shoulder as he walked into the living room. "Iraqi present?"

"It's slang."

"For what?"

"They got me. It's usually an IED."

"What about you?"

"I really don't wanna talk about that." She slowly walked around the living room, her eyes catching details, her mind scribbling down notes.

"Why not?" Rossi stood still in the small hall that separated the living room from the kitchen.

"Because it's embarrassing." She glanced at her colleague and wanted to say something case related, when she saw him look at her. Abby sighed and made a painful face. "It was my first week in Iraq, we were goofing around, my gun went off and blew my little toe off."

"That is embarrassing."

"Told ya. This room is a mess."

"As is the kitchen." Rossi was holding a file in his hand and flipped it open. "But forensics didn't find any sort of trace here, other than the Carlton's."

"So the Unsub was quick and efficient when he entered the house, immediately directed them upstairs." Abby walked back to the front door and spotted Peggy Sue leaning against her car, talking on her cell phone. She closed the door and peaked through the peephole. "It's pretty dark outside."

"There were no signs of forced entry. According to the two witness statements, he enters through the backdoor and points a gun at the women. Ginger Williams was convinced she locked the back."

"So how did he get in?" Rossi asked himself.

She began to play the scenario in her head, smelling what Tally and Elvis smelled, hearing what they did, being where they were. She turned around and walked into the living room, sitting down on the couch. Pillows with a white outer edge with pink flowers, a sage square is featured in the center along with red and pink roses on a white background were scattered on the floor, one was torn and white stuffing came from the inside like human guts. Most of what could have been broken was; vases, the television, the computer, chairs destroyed and the table knocked on its side.

"There is no evidence of a struggle here, no blood anywhere, no nails scratched on surfaces to get away, no plucks of hair, nothing." She heard screams from upstairs. A woman. She was desperate, begging, crying and pleading. Then the man, shouting in pain and agony. Upstairs was the devil, his minions dancing around on the floor, making the dust come down on Abby's head.

"I had them under control." She rose from the furniture and slowly walked towards the stairs. "So I took them upstairs. To the bedroom. When I was done, I came back down."

"How did you control them?" Rossi had appeared in the hallway again and was watching her.

"I had a gun, entered through the back, surprised one of the victims, I pointed the gun in her face." Her hands itched. There was blood on them, still wet. They were shaking slightly. "I tell them if they make a sound, I would kill them."

"So you had control and tied them up."

"And then I took them upstairs."

Rossi walked behind her, silently, his eyes observing the house, hoping it would tell him the things he needed to know. The sense of rotting flesh and blood guided Abby to the bedroom, which she carefully opened. The door squealed as it was swung open. On the bed, a large pool of dried blood. Her hands ached, the blood started to dry and formed scabs on her hands. In the corner stood a chair, scratches on the wooden floor visible from where Tally Carlton protested and fought against her bounds. In this room also, cabinets were searched through, clothes in piles on the floor.

"Has anything been reported missing?"

Rossi looked at the file. "No. Besides the rings."

"Elvis Carlton had a ring as well?"

"Texas PD looked into it, on the latest photo's he was shown wearing some sort of commitment ring."

"So why did they tore this place up? Was he looking for something?" Abby questioned out loud.

"If that was the case, something would be missing. Or.. Or he staged this, forensic countermeasures, make it look like a robbery."

"Nobody can make murders like these look like robbery. The Unsub spend time in this house, he felt comfortable. He's confident, planned, did his homework."

"Cold and calculated." The older man kneeled down, the light in the room casting shadows around the corners that lingered like the souls of the murdered victims.

"Yeah, but the m.o. is all over the place." Abby spread her arms and rotated on her feet, adding body language to her words. "You don't go from zero to this. What about the fantasies of the crimes, an m.o. would be consistent. They reshape an already established m.o. to meet the demands of the crime. The crime is exactly the same; he enters through the backdoor, subdues the men by pointing a gun at the head of the females. This, this feels like it hasn't been developed yet, but then the crimes would be smaller."

"It's another forensic countermeasure. It took the police to connect the crimes four months. If Molly Buckbee never went to the police for her husband's ring, they might not have connected these cases."

"That's pretty smart." She stated flatly.

"Law enforcement knowledge."

"A lot of law enforcement knowledge."

"He blindfolded the victims. That could be because they could recognise them." Rossi slowly paced around the room.

"Yeah, but both victims also said that he talked to them. If they would know him, they would recognise his voice."

"So he doesn't want them to see each other."

"Or anything else for that matter."

"Wait a minute." Rossi walked around the room, his eyes seeing things that made his brain connect the dots. "You're a violent crime expert, right?"

"Yeah." The strangest feeling of insecurity suddenly overwhelmed her. Did she miss something? She was missing something, she could feel it, she was missing something.

'_Think Frankie, think! Use that brain of yours!'_

Rossi grabbed the pictures from the file and spread them on the bed. Suddenly, it was as if Elvis Carlton was back on the bed, tied and defenceless. He moved to the chair to reposition Tally Carlton.

"Something is wrong about this. Tell me what you see."

Immediately, the room went darker, only a small bed lamp was on, dried blood became liquid again, shimmering in the dim light, Tally Carlton was sobbing, Elvis Carlton back in his cesspool of torture. There was someone in the room, eyes dark and evil, like Lucifer's. He laughed at the display of emotions and ran a hand over Tally's head, whispering to her. The blindfold prevented her to see him, but she could feel him, his touch, his breath, his presence. Elvis Carlton was covered in cuts, some deep, some shallow. He had been beaten and stabbed in the sides. The knife was long and sharp, covered in blood. Abby traced the Unsub's footsteps and her eyes followed him to the window side of the bed, the knife between his long fingers, a satisfied smirk on his face. She felt his emotions; complacent and invincible. Rossi was looking at her, occasionally talking but he left most of it up to Abby, as he could probably see that she wasn't really listening. He was the UnSub. He stood in front of the window, his silhouette peril and impersonating. There was noise coming from the corner, some fumbling and then a thud. Abby's head spun to the corner of the room, but Tally wasn't there. She was already at the door, opening it. It took Abby three large steps to stand in the doorway, raise her gun, the end of the barrel a few mere inches away from Tally's head. The slow motion action lasted until a gunshot echoed through the house, scarred like Elvis Carlton.

Abby blinked and returned to reality. Her hands were sweaty. She felt uneasy. Turning back into the room, she met Rossi's eyes.

"These injuries, one victim marked with a knife, always the male, the woman, shot." She pointed at the corridor, where Tally Carlton was found. "I wanna bet that our first victim, Elizabeth Sorton, was hit with the butt of a gun."

"He let them escape, they were supposed to remain sitting in the chair until help arrived. Disorganized, sloppy, messy."

"We have two profiles."

"Two killers." Their eyes meet, Abby baffled by their findings, Rossi stern and determined.

He blindfolded the victims not because he didn't want them to see each other, but so that they wouldn't see there were two of them.

Stupid. 

---

"_There is no hunting like the hunting of man, and those who have hunted armed men long enough and liked it, never care for anything else thereafter."_

Ernest Hemingway


	4. Wish to be loved

Chapter four. Wish to be loved.

"_We cannot tear out a single page of our life, but we can throw the whole book in the fire"_

George Sand

---

November.

Thursday.

23.14

The night train had picked her up. She had been standing on platform six-six-six, waiting, her thumb in the air. But it wouldn't come. Rossi prevented it from arriving at the station, the demons laughing their high pitched, crackling laughs, living freely in the darkness. The shades, however, they had come. They always came. Their claws extracted, ready to sink sharp teeth into her delicate flesh. Often, she zoned out. They spent another hour at the crime scene, constructing basically everything they could think of. Rossi was good, she had to admit. Then again, that is to be expected from the guy that started this entire unit and its ideas in the first place. When they headed back, Deputy Sue stood waiting for them outside. They gave her a brief description of what they found out and she reacted shocked once hearing their findings. Rossi told her to go home to start with a fresh mind in the morning whilst they did the same. When they turned the corner, Abby could see her squad car still parked in front of the house, Sue sitting in it. Abby called Hotch to inform them and they would meet at the police station.

Rossi was driving this time as Abby chewed on her cheek, her fingers pecking at her lower lip, staring out the window. There was a small voice in her head that kept asking if Rossi hadn't mentioned, would she have come to the conclusion that they were dealing with two serial killers, working together? The voice was hard to be heard with all the other voices in her head, the images of the crime scene, the dancing mental notes in front of her eyes. Suddenly, she became aware of the importance of the women at the scene. The first couple, Elizabeth and Nick Sorton, she had tried to escape. Her actions were rapid and sudden and caused one of the two to abruptly react. He did the first, for him, logic thing that occurred to him; he reached out. If she would escape, it would ruin the fantasy. But, if it was all about the women being there when they were tortured, why were they blindfolded? Wouldn't that, ultimately, also ruin their fantasy? If the female victims weren't able to see the damage done to their loved ones, then what was the point of letting them hear it? And what was the essence of the rings?

"What are you thinking?"

Abby waited a moment before she lowered her hand and took a deep sigh. "It doesn't make sense."

"What doesn't?"

"That they want the women in the room, but they're blindfolding them, so they can't see what's been done. I don't understand what they want, what their fantasy is or what it's about."

"It's too early for that."

"Oh c'mon, Rossi. An hour at the crime scene and you already figured out that we're dealing with a team."

"I didn't. You did. I saw that it didn't make sense, it didn't add up. You eventually figured it out. I might have-" He paused, his right hand often flying in the air as he spoke. "Guided you in the right direction."

"Are you saying that to cheer me up? Because it's not working."

"I'm not." He glanced at her and she could see the clockwork behind his eyes. His mind was working top speed. "It's different, isn't it?"

"What is?"

"BAU. It's different from Atlanta."

Abby shrugged. It was like she wasn't really a human being, she was merely a hand, a God that was defending a castle. She called in the reinforcements, placed them behind the walls. Archers on top, swordsmen behind the barricades, catapults placed in position. '_Get ready!'_ Inwardly, she snorted at her own thoughts. Stupid.

"Yeah."

"I've been to Atlanta, Scott. In fact, I'm pretty sure I've seen you there in oh-six. You were working the Gregerson case."

"You have?"

"I only saw you briefly; you were with the tech guy and the woman."

She smiled at the remembrance of her friends.

"We're all profilers, Scott. You're good. Just give it some time, we all need to watch the way the cat jumps, so to speak."

"And I'm the cat, right?"

"Sorry." He smiled apologetic.

Abby smiled shortly and thought about 'meowing' but changed her mind. Instead, her eyes flashed outside again and she realised they were already at the Sheriff's Office.

It was a strange building; the front of the edifice was resting on pillars, overlapped by the first floor and the rest looked like a beehive. There were two large strokes of grass and a row of trees blocking direct view to the department in the summer. Right now, late November, the trees had lost their leaves and the grass wasn't as green as in the summer. It looked formal, sober and screamed law enforcement at her. She glanced at her watch when she spotted the second SUV and Rossi and Abby stepped out of the car, heading towards the station. Nearly half past eleven. Inside, it was deserted and quite empty. A few officers were scattered around the room, the woman behind the front desk reading a magazine on guns and shooting. She immediately looked up when the two agents entered, but focused back on the paper when they flashed their badges and she smiled friendly.

JJ was first to see them and she approached the couple. "Hey. How did it go?"

"Not that good."

JJ remained silent for a few seconds when Rossi answered, but she brushed it off her shoulders. "I got hotel rooms set up at the MCM Grande Hotel, one block away. Here are your keys, they are expecting us."

"Thanks JJ." They followed the blonde into the small room that had been cleared for them and her eyes shortly found Hotch, Prentiss and JJ's work on the white- and notice boards. Hotch immediately spun around when he heard his two agents enter the room.

"A team?"

"There are two different profiles Hotch. One is cold, calculated. He kills coldblooded, controls the scene. The other is driven by a lot of anger and lust." Rossi explained calmly.

"It makes sense, a gun _and_ a knife? And how else could the Unsub have overpowered his victims? The risks are too great, they've been watching them for a long time, the murders are planned." Prentiss joined the conversation. She looked tired, as they all did.

"We'll have to look at this in a total different way." Rossi and Prentiss shared a look, neither of them too glad about his comment.

Hotch glanced at his watch. "Reid's plane is landing in half an hour. I'll pick him up, you get some rest. Tomorrow, we'll look at it with fresh eyes. It's been a long day. Morgan will arrive around eight tomorrow morning, so we'll start early."

"I'll pick Reid, you get some sleep. You look worse than I do." Abby tilted her head once and grabbed her FBI, blue jacket.

"You sure?" He sent her his hidden concerned, deep penetrating look.

"Yeah, besides, Reid's gonna have loads of questions. And I'll pick Morgan up tomorrow so he can tag along with me when I have that appointment with the medical examiner."

"Okay." Hotch hesitated. Then he nodded once. "Just. Make sure you get some sleep yourself."

"Yes Chief."

---

November.

Friday.

Next day.

00.04

"Smarties! How was your flight?"

Reid barely touched the seat beneath his body, his shoulder bag in this lap, his hand still on the door handle of the open door. He looked at her surprised.

"Smarties?"

Abby stared at him and swallowed. "Smarties… Nestlé Smarties. The colourful sugar-coated chocolate candy. They're rather popular all over the world. They have been manufactured since at least 1882, originally by H.I. Rowntree & Co." Her voice was hesitant but the odd feeling in her stomach disappeared when her favourite genius smiled at her.

"It's better than Genius."

She snorted at his comment and started the car, taking off the second Reid closed the door.

"Hey, how was Atlanta?"

"We caught him."

"Good. Wasn't it awkward, though? I mean, it's your old team and all."

"No, it was good. So, fire away. Oh, by the way, we think we're dealing with a team."

"A team?!" Reid reacted loudly.

"Yup. Two of them."

"The murders are completely opposite; the Unsubs would have completely different characters. They've been killing for at least four months, wouldn't they have collided yet?"

"If they haven't yet, it's a good way in for us." Abby commented.

"Yeah. Has Morgan arrived yet?"

"Nope, he couldn't get an earlier flight. He should be on a plane right now but he won't be here till like, eight in the morning."

"You've been to the crime scene?"

"Last one yeah."

The man next to her desperately tried to flip through the case files he had taken from Abby's bag, but it was too dark and the absence of light made it hard to read the words. He grabbed a flash light from his own bag and Abby snorted at him.

As Reid was reading, she begun to slowly explain what she saw, what the scene looked like. Starting at the top, she slowly worked her way to the bottom; their latest discovery that they were dealing with two individuals that decided to team up and kill together. Basically, there are two types within killing teams; the dominant one, and the submissive one. Killing together may be the result of a deep social bond. There has to be complete trust and something must connect them; their mental illness, their beliefs, ideas. Social relationships are often not between equals, the two persons may variate in character a lot. Intense loyalty, which is seriously overrated, especially in team killing cases, could be the reason why they kill together, to simply not let the other be alone or down. The most extreme form of this bond can be found among soldiers, especially during or after war. Spouses are usually forced to commit a crime such as murder. Most commonly, some of the partners realise what they have done because of what's called a 'standard social conscience'. When the relationship between the killers is less equal, the whole structure is different. A person could hold so much power over someone else that drives this person to murder in order to prove himself or please the dominant partner. A strong emotional dependence can be created between partners, as often seen in an abusive relationship and it can create a similar dynamic. In a central dynamic relationship, the abused person's inability to escape his or her feelings and the abuse can lead to a pathological desire to please. Abused persons don't make such good killers, but there are other ways in which they can 'help' with the murder.

But this was not a case of 'the killer' and 'the accomplish'. They killed together. One had his way with the men, the other with the women. Either way, no matter how Abby looked at it, it was all about the women. But what was it? She spent her night talking Reid up to date and going through theories with him. It wasn't until three, that he went to get some sleep. Abby had the rest of the night – her body unwilling to sleep – to write a detailed report about the latest crime scene for Morgan and scribble down all the words that danced in her mind, screaming at her to get some attention.

---

November.

Friday.

Same day.

08.13

A comforting, cool air brushed again her cheek, gently and caressing. Despite it only being fifty-four degrees Fahrenheit, the sun that shined caused the weather to be extremely pleasant. Her beloved pilot sunglasses were back on the bridge of her nose and she had rolled down the window completely, smoking a cigarette whilst she waited for Morgan. To her knowledge, she had covered every bit of ground there was on this case. She struggled through the files, redecorated her walls with her notes and pieces of paper, her mind raced through the maze that had grown in her mind and she covered every dead end. There were two, primary, things that kept her clockwork ticking. The women; why? What was their significance? They couldn't watch it, only hear it. One of the Unsubs was talking to them, why? What were they saying? Due to the traumatic event both women were put through, they remembered very little of the actual night. Ginger Williams even – if only temporarily – lost her mind. Whatever they did or said, it was enough to drive people crazy. What did they want with them? What role did they fulfil in their sick fantasy?

And of course, there was the haunting question: where did they come from? Did they seriously simply drop from the sky? Should there not be a beginning, somewhere? How did they become so sophisticated, and that quickly? When did they learn from their mistakes? No first kill was clean, or was that the reason why Elizabeth Sorton was dead? Because their first crime was not that well planned? They did succeed the second time, and the third. So what went wrong during the fourth murder? Did they lose focus, got distracted? What had happened? Yes, Tally Carlton managed to escape, or at least she had time enough to believe that she had. Bits and pieces of her skull in the hall told the rest of the story. But how? How could she have gotten lose? And how did both Unsubs not notice? She hated to admit it, but she needed another murder to fully understand. There was a theory, close under her skin. She had rode with the night train all night, feeling exhausted in the morning, and it passed the station where the theory was sitting, waiting on a bench for her to be picked up. It was a good theory, but fragile and built on thin fundaments. Only one little aspect had to change, and it would fall down like a house of cards.

Abby brought the cigarette to her lips once more and grabbed the butt between her thumb and the nail of her middle finger. Expertly, she shot the remains of her fag into the air, the still smoking cigarette landing near a puddle of water. Fire and water. Was that God sending her a sign? Suddenly, the passenger's door of the SUV opened. Her right hand immediately went towards her gun, grabbing the butt, but she didn't unholster her weapon. Derek Morgan halted as he wanted to step into the black vehicle, looking at her colleague through sunglasses. Abby sighed, raised her eyes and rolled her head. "Ever heard of 'hello'?" She snapped at him.

"I called you, four times. You didn't hear me." He shot back a little defensive.

"So you decided to just hop on in?"

"What's got your panties in a bunch?"

"Excuse me?"

"Oh, geez, Morgan, you scared me. Hi, how are ya?" He was clearly mocking her as he got into the car and spoke his vision of how their encounter should have gone. Despite his earlier fret, there was a smile on the lips she once kissed.

"Oh, geez, Morgan, you scared me. It takes me less than two seconds to shoot somebody, you're lucky you're still alive. How was your flight?" Abby replied pissed.

Morgan made a face and mimicked her whilst she spoke and he received a punch on the upper arm. "I'm serious, Morgan, I could have shot you. You scared the shit out of me. Don't mess with a woman who carries a gun."

"I normally don't." Their eyes found each other regardless of the shielding, tainted glasses. Abby looked at him, unsure of where he was going at, what game he was playing. Morgan looked back at her and it seemed like he was expecting a reaction and watching it, observing her. She, however, didn't respond and instead, started the car, sending him one last, stern, long glare. Abby quickly got them back in the direction of the I-20 all the while, still remaining silent.

"How was Atlanta?"

"We caught him." She handed him the files that she put between the chairs, her eyes on the road.

"I heard. Good. So, tell me about it, what was it like?

"It was good. How was Thanksgiving?" He glanced at her, his mouth partly open in surprise of her agitation towards the subject.

"Y'know, I was rather here, with the team, but it was good seeing my family again. How was yours?"

Abby snorted. "Didn't make it. We left Quantico around three."

"Lightman is going to have your ass." He was teasing her now, smiling as he spoke; laughing.

"I know, but quite frankly, I couldn't care less. Neither should you, that guy really can tell everything by the look on your face." Morgan looked up from the file, his head slowly turning towards her, his eyes slowly finding her face. She glanced at him and chuckled. "Yeah, Morgan. Everything."

"Abby, if anybody finds out - if Hotch finds out, we'll both get fired."

"Relax, Morgan, Lightman couldn't care less" – the phrase 'about us' was avoided like the plague – "okay? He'll just have a field day teasing me about it. You think I could be declared temporarily insane if I shoot him without anyone ever finding out?" – again, 'About us' was eluded.

"Abby-" He called her name and his voice was tight with stress.

"Hey, butt-head! Stop it! Lightman will give a rat's ass. Okay? Knock it off; you're acting like a friggin' woman. And, for the record," She pointed her finger at him, his deep brown eyes hidden behind his glasses and a concerned, stark stare, "if it would get to that point, which it won't, it will be my ass that's fired, not yours. Okay?"

"How do you know that?" Now, he was just being stubborn. The file was placed in his lap, laying there forgotten and lonely. He crossed his arms in front of his chest and continued to watch Abby.

"Worst case scenario, they'll find out, I'll be send back to SCU, Mac and Wills will kick my ass, Hotch will torture you for weeks and I'll have to do something like community service again."

"Community service." Morgan repeated.

"Yeah. Helping out at the shooting range, teaching probies to shoot, walking the mail, get Mac and Will's coffee."

"Again? You've-…" His voice trailed off and she shortly met his eyes.

"That makes it sound like I've done this like a million times, I haven't. It only happened once."

"What happened?"

"Harrison found out and a disaster emerged."

"Harrison is SCU, right?"

"Was." She corrected him.

"Right, was. Sorry."

It funny how many times you can flip a mood, turning it upside down, spinning it around, left becoming right and right becoming left. A brief interlude gave them both the time to think about their conversation. Abby felt like she just stepped off a rollercoaster. In the past five minutes, she nearly shot her partner, picked a fight, survived that very fight and whatever they had, their 'thing', it became real. Real enough for a lack of words. They had both subconsciously decided that what they had, what they were doing, should not be spoken out loud. There was no 'them' or 'us'. Simply him and her, and that was it. A few minutes ago, they had gotten dangerously close to the edge of affair and relationship – any kind of.

She stopped the car at the intersection; the I-20 from their left to their right leading them to what should occupy their mind. She sighed deeply and chewed on her lower lip.

"Morgan, this can't happen again."

"No. And it shouldn't."

"We're working a case, I can't do first name basic while on a case."

"I know." He turned his head to look at her, his head resting against the head rest. Abby kept staring ahead of herself, into space and the sun. "And we can't have these conversations here."

She merely nodded. They remained silent for a short moment, both left in their thoughts. Abby briefly pondered if she wanted her affair to become _this_ real, like 'talking about it' real. She was never good at close relationships. Perhaps that was the reason why her best friends were profilers and the person that functioned as a somewhat, far away, surrogate father was a lie-detection expert. She hated words, she sucked at conversations and talking about her feelings was something that only rarely occurred in her world.

"Wanna start over?" She drove onto the highway and headed back to Odessa.

Morgan snorted and looked at her again. "Hey."

"Hey, how was your flight."

"Good, thank you. What have we got so far?"

"Four crime scenes, six victims. Rossi and I visited the last crime scene last night, I wrote it down for ya. We're dealing with a team."

"A team?"

"Yup. It's all in the file."

Morgan flipped through the file that was thickened by Abby's notes. "Scott, do you ever sleep?"

"Rarely, and you're welcome." It took them a while before the tones of their voices stopped being fake and superficial, stopped pretending to be small talk. Eventually, they just blended right back in and on the outside, it all returned to normal.

"Thank you." He was mocking her again, smiling like he used to. Normal. Nothing more. "So, what's the plan?"

"We're going to pay the M.E. a visit. Should give you enough time to review the case. Hotch and Rossi are at the other three crimes scenes, Prentiss and JJ went to San Antonio State Hospital to talk to Ginger Williams, the survivor of the third attack, Reid's still looking at victimology back at the station with instructions on how to keep the cowboys calm."

"Keep the cowboys calm?"

"Whole town is freaked out."

"Sensing the sarcasm. Let me guess, you hate Texas?"

"No, I have a thing for cowboys and a Texan accent."

"Don't start, please." Morgan raised his hand, his eyes still on the words and images in the file and Abby laughed.

---

_"Women wish to be loved not because they are pretty, or good, or well bred, or graceful, or intelligent, but because they are themselves."_

Henri Frederic Amiel


	5. For no reason at all

Chapter five. For no reason (at all).

"_America is the only country that went from barbarism to decadence without civilization in between."_  
Oscar Wilde

November.

Friday.

08.59

There was something about the dead that remained mystic and furtive; an enigma. No matter how many coroners would dismantle bodies in attempts to uncover the truth; there was something about a body, no soul in it to revive it, which was as fascinating as it was morbid. The skin loses colour until the bleak, ashen, almost yellow-ish exterior is covered in blue and black body stains of death. Lips turn pale blue, nails turn into a coloured combination of white, yellow and blue and sometimes the body stains are so tiny, they look like little freckles. And they become cold. So damn cold. Frigid, icy, freezing and polar. That's what she hated most about the dead, if she _had_ to choose something to hate. That the shells were that disposable, they became frozenly lifeless. It wasn't that Abby enjoyed spending her time at the morgue, the coroner standing before her in his funny blue outfit, but she didn't mind either. There was something about death that was intrinsically a part of her. The coroner, Ben Renalds, was rather young, only thirty-four. When she looked at him, his angelic face, soft-like and slightly tanned, she wondered when on earth he made the decision to work with dead people. The thought of how his mother would react caused her to smile inwardly, hiding her amusement successfully.

The scent was something different, yet again, completely the same. As the bodies, it held its profound coldness. But there was also a sense of tranquil, crystal clear and clean water mixed with the smell of the winter that was sharp but soothing. Most of the air of rotting, decomposing flesh was masked by the antiseptic cleaning products that were used, but if she inhaled deep enough, she could feel it crawling through her nostrils. She needed a fag. And food. Lots of food.

A body lay under a bright white cover, distinct features telling her to be aware of the body underneath. Morgan and Abby stood on one side of the waist-high, aluminium autopsy table, Ben Renalds on the other. Both agents' mien remained expressionless when he pulled the sheet backwards to reveal the remains of Tally Carlton. Abby looked at the first thing she always looked at, dead or alive; the face. The area below her eyes was scarred by what she assumed a very bad case of acne in her childhood. There was some bruising around the right corner of her mouth and Abby could still see the faint blood trace in the pores around the wings of her nose. Her eyes were closed. Where her hairline was supposed to begin, was a hole, wide, like a star, not that big. It was the exit wound of the bullet that entered in the back. There were bruises on her arms and torso and four cuts on her arms.

"You guys are pretty late to be looking at a body." Renalds commented dully.

"We wanted to see it either way, with these types of cases, there's a lot to learn from the person that did this." Morgan's voice echoed through the room.

"There isn't much about this, really. Clean shot to the head, close range. Bruises and cuts suggest that she fought back but there were no traces under her fingernails. There are ligature marks around her wrists. Two deep lines, clean and straight. I can't tell you precisely what it is, but definitely not a rope of some sorts."

"What makes you think that?" Morgan had pocketed his hands, his shoulders pushed back, defensive. She couldn't blame him, the body was four days dead and the decomposing process had started days before.

"The lines, they are too straight, not a crook along the wrist. As you see here-" Renalds leant over the body and gently grabbed Tally Carlton's wrist, his gloved finger tracing a line on the outer side of her small, bony wrist. "The marks are darker on the outside of her wrists."

"Like she fought against her restrains." Abby leant in closer and studied the bruises.

"From what it looks like, but I'm merely guessing here, these marks look like cuff-marks."

"Cuff-marks."

Renalds raised his hands in defence towards the black agent and shrugged. "Just a guess. I'm not pointing a finger at anyone."

"Don't worry doc. Educated guesses are still allowed." She winked at him and raised her upper body again. "What can you tell us about the other victim?"

The three of them moved towards the other autopsy table, where another shell was displayed. Renalds pulled the white cover off and the torture that had been inflicted upon Elvis Carlton's body were avidly, vividly visible.

"I counted thirty-one lacerations. Bruises mostly on his face and torso, most cuts on his chest."

Abby cocked her head to the right when her eyes absorbed the image. Carlton's body was covered in cuts and bruises, red lines dancing over his body, bruises like balloons at a party. Renalds continued and she followed his hands with her gaze.

"There were ligature marks as well, around the feet and hands, looks like a rope or sorts. There are faint burn marks indicating that he mostly likely fought against scruffy bounds."

"No cuffs." Morgan noted and asked himself the question. "Why not?"

"Besides the cuts and the bruises, are there any other signs of torture? Burn marks, signs carved, nails removed?"

"No ma'am."

"So it's not that sadistic as we originally thought." She stated.

"They just like to inflict pain to their victims." Abby nodded at Morgan's comment.

"COD was a stab directly into the heart-"

"Wait, directly into the heart?" She saw Morgan's eyes glaring in her direction, curious and confused.

"Yes. Through the chest bone, into the pulmonary artery, damaging the aorta behind it. He bled to death, I don't think it took long. Considering the stress he was under, his heart was beating fast. Less than a minute."

"For it is the heart by whose virtue and pulse the blood is moved, perfected, made apt to nourish and is preserved from corruption and coagulation. It is indeed the fountain of life, the source of all action. William Harvey." She whispered to herself.

"Take a look at this." The young coroner adjusted the lamp that hung above the body, ignoring Abby, and placed his finger near the stab wound to the heart. "All wounds were made with a single-edge blade. Next to this bruise is a hilt mark where the handle guard of the knife hit the body. The knife is about 9,5 inches long." Renalds placed his hands on the table and leant down on his arms. It was common gesture amongst coroners that that was the end of story, there was nothing else. Morgan and Abby thanked the man and left.

During the ride back – Morgan was behind the wheel – she ruminated about all the facts. There was a slight pinch inside her chest every time she ran down the list and came to a conclusion she didn't like. Morgan was just as silent, his eyes on the road but his mind with the case. Suddenly, he looked at her when stopping for a red light.

"What are you thinking?"

"I need some food."

He only looked at her, believing her statement but knowing that was not on her mind. Abby took her time to answer him, rubbing her chin before exclaiming a deep sigh. "The stab to the heart."

"What about it?"

"It's something they teach in the military. From up front, it's the quickest way to eliminate a threat. It could just be a coincidence."

"But?"

"Deputy Sue was in the military, Rangers. She has law enforcement knowledge. Rangers use a so called Ranger knife, it's 9.65 inches, single-edged."

"Fits the profile, Sounds like a good suspect." The light switched to green and Morgan started driving again. It was nearly ten A.M. Hotch and Rossi should be back by now.

"She lost her right hand."

"Meaning?"

"There had to have been a bond between the Unsubs before."

"It's risky to bring an invalid. So that either means our other suspect is strong. Strong enough to compensate." Morgan thought out loud.

"Or that she's the one who started this all."

"You're hesitant to believe that she could be our Unsub?"

"No." She sighed again and Morgan parked the SUV in front of the sheriff's department. He waited, patiently, his eyes studiously fixed on Abby. "Yeah, I don't know. War changes you, you'd think that she would have enough of violence and blood and murder after losing a part of yourself like that. I checked; the truck she was in ran over an IED. She was one of the three survivors, two of her other teammates were killed."

"Could be PTSD. Someone could have left her. There are several triggers to think off and she could just use her knowledge to kill, killing because she knows how to."

"I don't know." Abby moved to get out of the car, into the fresh air, away from this man with his soothing voice that seemed to ease her any given time. She hated it.

"Scott."

She halted, the door already open, her hand still on the door handle.

"We're gonna have to talk to her."

"I know."

"You wanna do it?"

Her sunglasses protected her from the black shield that was pulled up. He was being kind, protective, gentle and soft. People normally didn't approach her like that because of her tough attitude. She preferred a head-on collision, like two cars slamming into each other like in a 'Chicken' race. She needed to look confrontation in the eye and stare it down. She hated it when it would sneak around her back and grab her by surprise. Morgan seemed to do that every time. She would think he was in front of her, but suddenly, abruptly and forcefully, he came from behind and grabbed her. She hated it when he did that.

"I don't care, really." She shrugged and got out of the vehicle.

It was a lie and she was glad Cal Lightman wasn't around because he would have spotted it from a mile away. She did care, of course she did. Sue and she may not have met or worked together in Iraq, she was a soldier and they both served their country. By both being in the Army, this bond was created, this mutual respect towards the other because their eyes had seen the same terror and their bodies felt the same fear. Their minds bearing the same heavy load of memories. But she didn't need Morgan to know that. She was used to seeing herself as a tough ass, hard to crack, often too wise-assed asset to the FBI. There was a hint of arrogance in that, she knew, but she felt like she was allowed just a tiny bit of arrogance after having done what she did, going through where she has gone through.

Once back inside the police department, Abby spotted Deputy Sue at her desk and decided to get it over with. She moved towards the neatly organized table and stopped when she stood in front of it.

"Deputy Sue?"

"Yeah?" She looked up and brown eyes met her green ones. Sue recognised the face and jolted from her seat. "Oh, hey there. Sorry, I hadn't seen you."

"Can we have a word?"

"Sure."

"In private." Abby added.

"Yeah, of course." The Deputy followed Abby to the room where the BAU operated in and spotted Morgan. He already entered and, Abby figured, told Reid about their latest discovery. She closed the door once the female police officer entered.

"Have you met agent Morgan yet? He flew in this morning." They shook hands. "And doctor Reid." Abby pointed at the youngest in the room.

"Yeah, we've howdyed but we ain't shook." She extended her fake hand and Reid smiled like he always did.

"Have a seat."

"You're gonna tell me what this is all about?"

Gladly, Abby let Morgan take the lead as she leant against the edge of the table in the corner, carefully observing Peggy Sue. "Coroner confirmed that Elvis Carlton was stabbed directly into the heart."

"Directly? Well that's a hell of a coincidence." She fell silent when seeing Morgan's hardened face. "That ain't a coincidence, is it?" She glanced in Abby's direction briefly.

"There were cuff marks around Tally Carlton's wrists." He continued.

"Cuff marks. You think a police officer would do this."

"There are several ways to get handcuffs." Reid carefully mingled into the conversation, he too, eyeing the deputy.

"The knife was single-edged, about 9.5 inches long." Abby's comment made Sue's head snap towards the young agent and she stared her deep in the eye, her own eyes slightly widened. What was that, shock? Fear?

"You think that I did this? That's ridiculous. You served yourself agent Scott, you've been to Iraq. I have had enough of blood and murder."

"We have to ask. The Unsubs we're dealing with know a lot about law enforcement and forensic countermeasures. That could mean that one or both of them is a law enforcer." Morgan said.

"There's two?"

"Yes."

Sue's focus was now back on Morgan as she looked at him. "Holy Mary mother of God. Well, I can tell you, I didn't do it. What the heck am I supposed to do with this thing?" She raised her plastic hand and waved it in the air.

November.

Friday.

11.15

"Guys, I have a theory."

They had barricaded themselves in the room that was dedicated to the case with plenty of coffee, water and food. Hotch and Rossi had returned with empty hands. All they knew that despite the first crime was sloppier than the last, it still was close to perfect. They had planned it perfectly, and for a first time, that meant a lot. Prentiss and JJ had more luck. They interviewed Ginger Williams in San Antonio's State Hospital and managed to uncover a very important aspect. The women. It was all about the women. Prentiss and JJ explained that Williams had told them some about what the Unsub was saying to her. About her boyfriend, that he would cheat on her, hurt her and eventually leave her. Because they all did. There was one thing that she remembered crystal clear; 'Listen, listen fool, don't be so blind. It's what we are and who you are. Different and we will hurt you'. After Williams recalled, she slipped into a severe panic attack, repeating the sentence over and over again, screaming in agony, crying out. Prentiss and JJ left after they were asked to by the nurses.

Reid suddenly spoke, interrupting the train of thoughts, theories and ideas that the team had created and started to move. All agents were quiet and Reid took it as an invitation to start rambling.

"It's about the women, right? Listen, listen fool'. They want the women to listen to them because they, the men, they will hurt them. It's why they blindfolded them, because they are too blind to see it and they need to hear it. We could be dealing with two men who were left by their wives. By killing the men, they are basically killing themselves, repeating words that their loved ones could have said to them. 'It's what we are' could refer to the monsters they are, as men, possible even failures. 'Who you are' are the women that won't see what the men are doing to them."

Abby had been listening quietly, staring down at the carpet. Several words Reid uttered were important, they lit up like bill boards, penetrating her mind and enlarged by her thoughts. What was it? Her cell phone rang, the vibration echoing and the ringtone disturbing the mood in the room.

"Sorry." She quickly grabbed it and in her hurry, she forgot to look at the caller's display. "Scott."

The cold chills arrived again, like the Spartans invaded Troy, abruptly, rapid and sudden. The silence, recondite and esoteric, on the other end was deafening and peril at the same time. Her breath was stuck in her throat, her heart racing, insects crawling up her legs, piranha's biting down into her flesh, the silvery blade running down her back, following her spine. She could feel her skin turning into stone, adamant and fierce, imperturbable. Her eyes ardent but the anger well hidden behind the thick fog-like blankets that immediately fell in front of them. And then his voice. He greeted her, the tone of his voice soft and low as always. She resisted the urge to close her eyes and start crying. She knew this feeling all too well and she felt herself fall into a faint state of panic when her mind was screaming at her how to hide this from six profilers. Apparently, she managed, as she replied that the caller must have the wrong number and she hung up.

For a change, Rossi's eyes were not glued on her. Instead, he turned around and looked at the white-board; where Abby had written down all her thoughts, often only being a simple word. Prentiss' eyes fluttered and widened as she found a piece of the puzzle. In slow motion, she opened her mouth, her hand making its way into mid-air when she saw them. Abstruse, sagacious, shrewd and sharp, deep, dark brown eyes, the heavy black brows narrowed and knitted together. It was only for a split second that she saw them and they saw her. Then, Prentiss' excited voice filled the air and both Abby and Hotch turned his gaze to look at Emily.

"That's why they killed the first and the last victim. They were already married."

"They couldn't be saved anymore; it was too late for them." Morgan added.

The night train raced past her, the air created by the speed blowing through her hair, so close that the black nails on the outside scratched her cheek. It was trying to get her attention, but her mind was still frozen. Perplex.

"One of the Unsubs was with the men, hurting them but not in a sadistic way because, basically, they are the ones tied to the bed and being stabbed over and over again. The other watched the women and let his guard down with the married women, allowing them to get away because, basically, that's what they want." Hotch noted.

"To make them believe that they escaped. Only not in the way that the victims thought, but Unsubs. Fooling themselves into believing that they can or could escape." The words flowed out of her mouth and she wasn't even sure of what she was saying, it just came out, uncogitated, without molding it over. Reid's hypothesis caused the clockwork to start ticking and things started to fall together. It was Rossi, this time, whom turned the tables.

"Her guard."

"What?" Six heads turned towards him and watched anxiously as JJ blurted out her surprise.

"_Her_ guard. We're dealing with a team of female serial killers."

"Female?" Hotch's expression was questioning.

"Isn't that like, highly unlikely with brutal murders like these?" JJ asked.

But before Rossi could answer Hotch or JJ, Reid already spoke. "They are trying to save the women from getting hurt, like they did, or at least one of them. The planning of these crimes is almost obsessional."

"Female killers are known to plan their actions to the detail, more than the male killers." Abby rose from her sitting position and joined Rossi in front of the board as Reid continued talking.

"For one Unsub it's personal, she uses a knife whilst the other uses a gun. The victims described the person that entered their house as short, small. That's probably another reason why the victims were blindfolded, if they weren't, they might have seen them."

"There is one dominant member who orchestrates the activities and one submissive, easily- manipulated partner. Usually they are in a relationship, for at least one of the partners is 'enhanced' by the murders. In this case, the Unsubs get a kick out of seeing what they can away with, after a psychological breakdown." Everything Morgan was saying made sense and Abby nodded to herself.

"Female serial killers are very self-absorbed and drawn to control. They are narcissistic and seek the nicer things in life. They cannot stand the thought of being helpless, so they target what they hate. They despise the thought of one day being old en dependent. They also often kill people that represent someone from their past, like substitutes. They kill what they hate repeatedly because it makes them feel better for a short period of time." Hotch said.

"Wait a minute. Williams and Underlove both couldn't completely remember what happened, but they said that the person talking to them had a rather high pitched voice." JJ's blue eyes held a form a determination and sternness as she glanced around, meeting the faces of the group.

"Female serial killers are also known for leaving little to no forensic evidence. They do intensive research, going to library's, reading or buying books about forensic evidence, profiling, everything that has got anything to do with how to get away with murder. Most crimes are power or money orientated, seeing these murders, it's definitely all about power. And manipulation." She added to herself, softly, "It's all about the women."

"And then the rings and the inscription. 'For my love, for you'. If men were to put an inscription in a ring, they wouldn't say it like that. It's a form of deep passion." Added Prentiss to Abby's sentence. Everything suddenly just fell right into place and they could feel the pieces of the puzzle being placed in the right position.

_"There is small merit in mocking goodness, tweaking charity; it is much more comic to deprive people of their petty little existence for no reason at all, for a lark." _

Jacques Rigaut


	6. A light in the darkness

_"As far as we can discern, the sole purpose of human existence is to kindle a light in the darkness of mere being."  
_Carl Jung

November.  
Saturday.  
Next day.  
09.10

After the profile was altered and reconsidered, new tasks were assigned. Morgan would call Garcia and shamelessly flirt with her whilst looking for women in Odessa whom fit the profile. Reid and Abby, both being the fast readers, would skim through cases that held similar aspects to try to find out if they, or at least one of the Unsubs, had practised killing and if they did, how? What did they or she do? They needed to broaden the victimology information they had so far, because none of the victims held any form of connection. Morgan would ask that too of Garcia, with his sweet words, to look into their lives even deeper to find out where the point was that they crossed the same bridge, so to speak. Hotch, Rossi and Prentiss were getting ready to give their profile to the police officers inside the sheriff's department, as JJ stood outside to release it to the press.

Abby had taken a break from all the paperwork. Odessa wasn't actually such a bad place to live. It had a fairly low crime rate, 691 reported violent crimes and 4,066 reported property crimes in 2008. 51,8% was female and of the 98,801 people that lived in the city, 73% was white. Still, 600+ cases to go through with the ability to read over 20,000 words per minute, was still a lot. Right now, all they had were a case of a triple homicide, two home invasions that left a few bangers dead, four hit and runs with the same description of the car and two suspicious deaths in a nursing home. The latter was flagged by the team, Morgan, Prentiss and Garcia were already looking at it. Female serial killers have the tendency to kill weak and disabled men and women. To Abby's knowledge, killing two Alzheimer's patients and then moving to home invasions with torture and mind games, was like adding one and one and getting six. Rossi was looking into the suspicious hit and runs, but they all agreed Odessa dealt with a bad drunk a couple of months ago. Reid was studying the two home invasions which held similar aspects of their case. Entered through the back, shot with a .45 Caliber, but the victims, low-life bangers, didn't fit in. Abby had gone over the case of the triple homicide, three prostitutes shot in the late hours of the night, also with a .45. The murders were random and rather sloppy, but besides the shell casing, there wasn't much to go on. One thing had caught her attention though, with each body, the same note was discovered; 'This is for you'. The moment her mind registered it, she was jerked onto the night train, her shoulders sore and the flesh torn, but the train took off rapidly, leaving the light behind and embracing the darkness as Abby walked through the compartments.

After digging into all the old, cold cases, she needed a fresh air and a smoke. Abby stood outside, quietly and solemnly smoking her cigarette, her mind all over the place, as she observed JJ and her natural confidence in front of a camera. Whilst the elegant blonde spoke, reporters kept their mouths shut, the cameras rolling and the photo cameras busy.

"I'm going to release a psychological profile of the two suspects that has so far killed six people. If you have any information regarding them or if you recognise this description, please call our tip line. The Unsubs we are looking for are two females. Female serial killers tend to be individuals who enjoy spending time by themselves. They are cold emotionally, have an odd sense of humour, finding death funny, lack deep personal attachment, are complete narcissists, are always looking for naive people who they can dominate and believe that no one understands them. They feel superior to law enforcement. They often 'space out' mentally, have a cold stare and have been described as two-faced. When angered they will change - a cold, stark look takes over the eyes. They'll be known for disappearing, almost being invisible at times. One of the Unsubs is a thirty-five to forty-five years old female of average intelligence. She has a nine-to-five job and considers herself a social failure. She's a follower, subordinate and recessive. Despite her receding attitude, she is well-built and strong. It is possible that in the last six months, she experienced a trauma such as the loss of a loved one or a family member, or a break-up or divorce. The other suspect we are looking for is a thirty to forty years old female of above average intelligence. She's dominant, arrogant and a complete narcissist. She believes she's smarter than and stands above everyone else. She's charming but rather bold. It is very possible that she has law enforcement knowledge. This Unsub could also have recently lost a loved one, family member, broke up or went through such a trauma. Both of these women live alone and are single or divorced. But most importantly, they will have expressed their desire to harm others. When confronted about it, they will say that it was only a joke. If you have any information, please, do call our anonymous hot line. Thank you."

The reporters practically screamed at her, but JJ waved them away and turned her back on them, heading back towards the PD. She spotted Abby leaning against the wall and smiled. Abby sent her a respectful nod and eyed the ever busy bees that dedicated their lives to the press. As JJ entered the police station, Morgan stepped out. He noticed Abby lurking in the shadows on the building, wrapped his coat tighter around his body and approached her.

"Hey."  
"Hey." He looked at her, his eyes obviously studying her, measuring her mood, his expression unsettled.  
"What's up?"  
"Nothing." He shrugged but then continued. "I just-.. You gotta stop beating yourself up Abs." Morgan stepped closer to make sure their conversation was kept private.  
"I'm not."  
"Don't even start. I can practically see it happening in the head of yours."  
Annoyed, Abby tossed her cigarette on the pavement, tucked her hands in her pockets and sighed, all the while avoiding eye contact. "I should have seen it."  
"No, you shouldn't."  
"I'm a violent crime expert, I should have noticed the irregularities. I interviewed Susan Smith, Judith Neelly, Holly Harvey-  
"We can't see everything, Scott. That's why we work in and as a team. Abby, it's not some sort of competition. You don't have to constantly prove yourself. We're a team. If we all would blame ourselves for not seeing everything the others see, we'd be too busy with ourselves instead of focusing on the case."  
"Are you suggesting I'm too caught up with myself?" Abby joked. She tried to lighten the mood and not have this deity man being able to understand her more than he could imagine. He just kept on hitting the nail right on the head.  
"No. I'm saying you should have a little more confidence in yourself" – _'Abby… Abby… Get aboard now Abby, come play..'_ – "We all contribute in our own way. ('_Aaaaabby…._') If this was a job we could do solo, we would have locked up every criminal in the world by now. But we can't fly this thing solo. So stop eating yourself up."  
Abby stood frozen on her spot. The devils on the night train were laughing maliciously, hysterically, evilly. "Confidence."  
"Yeah."  
"Contribute in your own way."  
Morgan frowned, not understand where she was going. "Yeah."  
"Like killing three hookers?" She looked up and looked right into his eyes. Then she moved and rushed back inside, Morgan on her heels.

Abby stormed into the room, startling Prentiss and Rossi, whom both leant over their case files. Words that had been scribbled down on post-its and put in her mind and words that had been spoken flashed before her eyes, as if sitting on a rollercoaster. She grabbed the case file of the three murdered prostitutes and threw pictures on the table whilst repeating the profile.

"She is a social failure, a follower, subordinate and recessive. Despite her receding attitude, she is well-built and strong. It is possible that in the last six months, she experienced a trauma such as the loss of a loved one or a family member, or a break-up or divorce. They couldn't be saved anymore; it was too late for them. Make them believe that they escaped. They are trying to save the women from getting hurt, like they did, or at least one of them. The planning of these crimes is almost obsessional. Usually they are in a relationship, for at least one of the partners is 'enhanced' by the murders. In this case, the Unsubs get a kick out of seeing what they can away with, after a psychological breakdown. They kill what they hate repeatedly." She paused as she saw their faces looking at her as if she had just suffered a mental breakdown. "The three murders were sloppy, impersonal and random. What if _one_ of them started this? Not because of what she hates, because of what she loves?"  
"What do you mean?" Hotch had his hand up to his mouth, like he always did when thinking. Seven agents continued staring at her.  
"The note." She placed the evidence bag that contained the white note and typed letters on the table for everyone to see. "This is for you'. What if one of them loves the other, whom recently dealt with a severe trauma? She started killing for her to some sort of meaning to her life, give her confidence."  
"The rings represent their love for each other." Prentiss said amazed by their findings.  
"Deputy Sue." Abby turned her head to meet Morgan's. "She served in the war. She's part of the investigation so she won't have to throw herself in. Scott, you said it yourself, she lost half her team. She would be involved in the murder of three hookers because she is a cop."  
"She waited." Rossi suddenly said. "She waited, she wanted us to invite her when we visited the last crime scene. She wanted us, the FBI, to invite her to her own crime scene. The Unsub stood right in front of us."  
"We need to call the coroner." Reid suddenly looked up.  
"Why?" JJ asked confused.  
"Because we need to know the direction the wounds were made. Sue lost her right hand-"  
Prentiss finished his sentence and answered her own question. "If they were dealt by a left handed person, she's the torturer."  
Morgan's phone rang and the Calvary arrived. "Baby girl, you're on speaker. Talk to me."  
"I'm going to ask for a raise because what I have just found will most definitely crack your case. Again. I know, I'm Superwoman. Listen to this my favourite crime fighters, I found a connection between your victims. The reason why it took me so long, before you ask, because it's spread over a long time period. A month before the first murders, Elizabeth Sorton visited the Getaway Spa & Salon. Three weeks before Molly Calvin and Travis Buckbee, Molly visited the same spa. Ginger Williams and Tally Carlton both had an appointment at the Getaway Spa & Salon fifteen days prior to the murders. And for the one million dollar question, what did they have?"  
"Something that allowed our Unsub to take their keys." Hotch held a file in his hands and he looked at the phone almost angry.  
"Ding ding ding, one million dollar to mister Aaron Hotchner. They all had body services that lasted at least an hour. There is one butt: they were all treated by different women."  
"It gave her plenty of time to copy the key somehow. It's the only way they could get into the house without traces of forced entry. Prentiss, Rossi and Reid, interrogate Deputy Sue, try to get a name out of her. Garcia, check if there was anyone that worked on all the days the victims visited and dig into Deputy Peggy Sue's life."  
"Already on it."  
"Morgan and Scott, you're with me. We're going to the spa."  
"I always love a good facial." Abby snatched her jacket from the chair and followed Hotch and Morgan outside.

-

November.  
Saturday.  
Same day.  
11.32

A bell rang as Hotch opened the door and the three of them headed inside the day spa. All female victims visited this very spa before they were killed and Abby had to admit, the idea of making quick copies of the keys whilst they were enjoying a good massage or nice scrub, was pretty darn clever. The Unsub would have had the time to snatch their keys and had free access to their houses; all they needed was clay or tin. The copying of a key was precise work, and took some time, but not at all hard to do. Sue had been a cop for over ten years, she would know how to do and if she didn't, you could even find instructions on the internet. It all looked so simple. But Abby had yet to figure out what connected them and what got them killing.

She tried to push the feeling of stupidity away as they approached the reception desk, where a puffed up blonde worked on her nails. Sue had managed to trick her, fool her into believing that she wasn't their Unsub and she was all too glad to believe it, to accept it and move on. But now that she knew it was her, she suddenly looked at her differently. There was no bond between them, Sue had stopped protecting her country the minute that she and her friend made plans to kill and torture. Abby hated to admit it, but she wasn't a hundred per cent focussed on this case. There were many other things on her mind and somehow, she wasn't able to shut it down and crawl in their Unsub's head like she normally does. Instead, her fight with Morgan still danced around in her head, the words he said, the air between them in the car. Reid that kept looking at her like he could smell something was wrong, Rossi's eyes that kept following her, those eyes ripped her skin off, exposing the inside. They were all closing in, Hotch, Morgan, Reid, Rossi, even Prentiss and JJ and she felt the walls close in on her, pushed down on the floor in a small corner, her back against the walls no matter how she positioned herself. Their eyes followed her; or was she just being paranoid?

And then there was _him_, of course. He got bolder; he called her whilst she was on a case. He never did that, it was always late in the evening, before she went to bed to ensure that nightmares would surface and rid her of her sleep. He had started talking to her, which was new too. He was getting close as well, but with him, it was different. He caused her heart to beat rapidly, her breath to speed up, her skin to become tight with stress, spots in her neck because of it, his arm steady around her neck, nearly suffocating her. His nails scratched over her arms and back and the itching wouldn't stop; it was as if he was inside of her, crawling around like bugs. She wanted to scream until she had no breath left and awoken the night; to rid the earth of darkness and forever live in light. She hated it. She hated him. And then again, she didn't. Because she couldn't.

Back in the present, Hotch took the lead, Morgan close by, never leaving his side. Abby lingered behind them, taking in the scene, her eyes flashing over details and stored in her mind. New age music floated on the air in the large room and there were several doors and two hall ways. Options, all options. Both Morgan and Hotch showed their badges.

"Special agent Hotchner, Morgan and Scott. We'd like to speak to you manager."  
The second that they flashed their badges, the blonde had dropped the nail file and her eyes widened. She stuttered slightly when she spoke. "He's uhm, he's in his office."  
"Where can we find his office?"  
"Through the hall, last door on your right." She pointed her perfectly manicured nail in the direction of the manager's office.

Hotch thanked her kindly and took his loyal soldiers with him as he marched down the corridor. On her left, Abby looked through glass plates and saw a fairly big, tropical pool. Eleven women were scattered around it, most of them in the water, but several others on the edge, laying on a metallic-looking, modern outdoor chaise, sipping on healthy looking shakes, wearing teddy-bear-soft, white robes. When Abby looked past the pool, she could see three women on the other side of the glass, animatedly talking to their colleagues. The receptionist joined them as quickly as she could on her nine inch heels, her curly blonde hair wavering on her movements. She said something to the trio and their heads turned to look at them. By now, they had reached the manager's office and Hotch knocked on the door but did not wait for an invitation. From the corner of her eye, Abby could see the four employees turn the corner so they could look directly at their boss' office.  
"Can I help you…?"  
"Special agent Hotchner, Morgan and Scott. We're with the FBI."  
The man shot up from his chair as if it was on fire. He looked smooth, too smooth, neat, clean and organized. Everything in his office was shimmering in cleanliness and you could practically lay a ruler next to things to see if it all laid straight. Framed pictures of beautiful women hang upon the wall, their body's fat-free, silk-like and shining in oil. The man himself was wearing a Burberry white dress shirt and ironed chocolate, Samuel Windsor formal trousers. His hair was dark brown and combed backwards. Truth be told, he looked like a slick lawyer or manager, not like the owner of a day spa.  
"FBI?"  
"We believe that one of your people is someone we're looking for."  
"What?" He nervously scratched his chin and Abby could see a vein in his neck blowing up.  
"We're looking for a woman in her thirties or forties of average intelligence. She's subordinate and recessive, a follower. She's well-built and rather strong. It is possible that in the last six months, she experienced a trauma such as the loss of a loved one or a family member, or a break-up or divorce. She'll avoid arguments, could be considered shy and withdrawn. She spaces out mentally but can get very aggressive suddenly. She considers herself a social failure and it's possible that people make or made fun of her." Morgan summed up.  
The manager, Anthony Fimber, looked down, his hand in his neck, his eyes closed. Then, he nodded at Morgan. "I think I know someone, but, it's complicated."  
"Complicated how?" Hotch looked at him sternly, his voice gruff and low.  
"Felishia Cornett, she's thirty-seven, thirty-eight, something like that. Her fiancé left her about a year ago, but nothing traumatizing happened to her in the past six months. She is a close friend of Deputy Sue though."  
"Something happened to Sue in the past six months?"  
Fimber snorted at Abby. "Uhm, yeah. She fought in the war, lost her right hand. Everybody said that when she would come back, she would have a good shot to become Sheriff, but because of her hand." His voice trailed off. "And of course, her husband left her for another woman about four or five months ago, after she came back. Felishia has practically been there every step of the road, after the traumas of the war started to take their toll on Sue. They're best friends, they would kill for each other. "  
Click. That was it. The final piece of the puzzle. They had them now.  
"Is Felishia working now?" Morgan had glanced in Abby's direction when they realised they had their Unsubs.  
"Yeah. She's probably on her break."  
"Where can we find her?"  
Fimber grasped for air. "Oh God."  
Hotch, Morgan and Abby followed his stare and in the split of a second, Abby saw a red haired woman through the glass, standing in the hall, facing the office, a gun pointing in their direction. Abby lunged forward and pulled Hotch down whilst Morgan pressed his back against the wall, a bookcase and plant blocking Cornett's view on him. Felishia Cornett fired her gun several times and Abby was barely able to pull Hotch to the ground them she heard the first shots and yelled at them to get down.

Both Abby and Hotch were on their backs, their guns drawn and the mouths directed at the now broken glass. Her supervisor glanced in Morgan's direction and motioned for him to keep quiet. He nodded and raised his gun to get an angle.  
"Scott, you okay?"  
She ran her eyes over Hotch's body before she replied. "Peachy." Carefully, she crawled past the desk where muffled sounds came from. "Manager's down. Gunshot to the shoulder." Abby used her hands to move her body forward until she reached the frightened man. She quickly checked his pulse and then the wound. "Relax, you're gonna be fine."  
Fimber looked up at her, his face pale, his eyes big and round in fear. She grabbed his hand and placed it over the wound. "Keep pressure on this." Fimber nodded and determination spread across his face. Perhaps he wasn't that sleek at all.  
"Felishia Cornett?" Hotch called out to her, his gun still pointed in her direction. "My name's Aaron Hotchner, I'm with the FBI."  
"What do you want?" Her voice was drenched in panic, stress and fear, hoarse with emotions. Felishia Cornett was one messed up person.  
"I just want to talk to you. Nobody else has to get hurt."  
"I'll be the one to judge that." _A follower wanting to be a leader.  
_  
Abby moved to the side, peeking around the desk to see if she could get a visual on their shooter by looking through the still open door. Since they were on the ground and couldn't see Felishia over the edge of the half plasterboard wall, she had to be standing several feet away from the office. She shuffled a few more inches to the side and was able to see her legs, the company's blue skirt starting above her knees. When she looked up, Cornett saw her and immediately pointed her gun at her and fired three more rounds. Abby felt wood splinters softly brush against her cheek as she quickly shot aside.  
"Careful." Hotch looked at her shortly and then at Morgan, whom again, nodded. "Felishia? Do you think you can put the gun down so we can talk?"  
"I don't wanna talk!" Cornett screamed and fired her Colt when Abby flashed her arm in the opening of the door, drawing her attention. She kept herself in a squatting position by holding on to the desk. Morgan gingerly stuck his head around the piece of wall that blocked Cornett's view on him and sought his target.  
"Stop it! Stop it you stupid bitch!"  
"Felishia, just calm down, we want to help you."  
"Help me? Help me? I don't need your help bastard. You're all gonna die!"  
Suddenly, Abby heard the sound of glass breaking under shoes and the faint trace of a clicking heel. Cornett was wearing heels and she was coming closer. The gun appeared first but was quickly followed by her face, her cheeks red, her eyes furious.  
"Drop your weapon, Cornett." Hotch and Abby both screamed.

It was a friggin' stand-off. Cornett couldn't see Morgan, Morgan could see her. She pointed her gun at Hotch whom returned the favour, whilst Abby also held Cornett at gun-point. She smiled and a sneer was formed on her devil-like face. Before either Hotch or Abby could react, Cornell's finger twitched and Morgan fired twice. She instantly lost her weapon and the force of the bullets caused her to fall backwards.

Abby got on her feet faster than she laid down minutes before and rushed towards Cornett, her .22 Glock still aimed at their suspect. With her left foot, she kicked the .45 Colt away and her left hand released itself from the grip around her weapon to check for a pulse, the right hand still directed at Cornett. When she broke contact of her still warm skin, noting the blood that stained her pastel light yellow blouse, she turned and looked at Morgan. Abby shook her head and looked back at the now dead suspect. "Nice shot."  
Morgan didn't say a word, instead, he returned to the office.

The blonde, '90210' receptionist had called 911 the minute she heard the first shots. Apparently, she wasn't as dumb and blonde as she looked. Seventeen minutes after the first shot rang through the day spa, officers were busy containing the scene, calming down the people that were inside and crime scene investigators were collecting their evidence. Outside, paramedics were busy loading Anthony Fimber in the ambulance and Abby stood next to the bus and gladly refused his offer of a year of free massages.

"But you guys, you're under loads of stress and everything, you can come any time."  
"Thanks a lot, mister Fimber, I'll keep it in mind."  
Fimber was now in the ambulance and one of the paramedics moved to the driver's seat. "Is he going to be okay?"  
"Who?"  
Fimber nudged with his head in Morgan's direction, whom stood ten feet away from them, talking to one of the police officers who handed him an evidence bag. "Oh, him. Yeah, he'll be okay."  
"Thank him for me, will you?"  
"Of course. Take care." Abby closed the ambulance's doors and it took off, lights flashing but silent sirens. Tucking her hands in her pockets, she strolled towards Morgan. He noticed and kept his gaze on her.  
"You okay?"  
"Yeah." He looked down and studied the contents of the evidence bag.  
"Hey." She forced him to look at her with her words and the silence that she inserted. "It was a good shoot."  
"I know." Morgan handed her the bag. ".45 Colt. Same weapon that killed those three prostitutes. Bullets are already on their way to Ballistics, good chance they match."  
"Have we heard from the coroner yet?"  
"No. Cornett is dead and Sue's not talking."  
"She would have shot us, shot Hotch. You did the right thing." His eyes interlaced with Abby's and she could see a thin, full of worries layer in his eyes. Nonetheless, he smiled meekly at her and touched her shoulder. "Thanks."  
"Y'know, that is unless you wanted us death, then I'd say you screwed up big time." She lit a cigarette and received a playful push. "But you did get offered a year of free massages and Fimber thanks you."  
"Free massages?" Hotch had joined them and looked not understanding at his newest agent.  
"Fimber he-.. Never mind." Abby closed her mouth again, not bothering to explain for he would not be interested anyway.  
Hotch looked over his shoulder and then back at them almost approbated. "Let's head back to the station, they're going to need our help cracking Sue."  
"Yeah, I don't think that's going to happen." She shrugged.  
"It's worth a try."  
The three agents turned and headed towards the black SUV, on their way to one of the toughest tasks that lay before them in the past days.

-

"_For I verily, absent in body, but present in spirit, have judged already, as though I were present, concerning him that hath so done this deed."  
_I. Corinthians


	7. Fear of ends

"_Candid and generous and just. Boys care but little whom they trust. An error soon corrected - for who but learns in riper years. That man, when smoothest he appears, is most to be suspected?"  
_William Cowper

* * *

November.  
Saturday.  
Same day.  
12.04

"Hey. How'd it go?" Prentiss turned around once she heard the door to the observation room open. Hotchner, Morgan and Abby entered, noticing the young genius in the corner near the glass and the elder Rossi on the other side of it. Peggy Sue sat in the chair opposite of Rossi, her face towards the one-way mirror.

"Felishia Cornett was our second Unsub. She opened fire in the spa, injured the manager but he's going to be fine. She's dead." Eyes immediately went towards Morgan when Hotch shortly looked in his direction after speaking.

"Bullets have yet to confirm it, but it's a good chance that the gun she used is a match to our victims and the three prostitutes." Abby moved whilst speaking, towards the glass and cocked her hear to the right when she observed the Deputy.

"How's it going over here?" Hotch asked.

Prentiss sighed and raised her eyebrows at her boss. "Whatever they say about female serial killers is true. She's a tough nut to crack, I'm not even sure if we'll crack her at all."

"Cornett's death might." Hotch exited the room and seconds later, a knock on the door reverberated through the listening machine and Rossi left the room to return about ten seconds later.

Peggy Sue sat still in her chair, her hands folded on the table in front of her, her mien calm and cool, but her eyes were burning. They were on fire; she was one fire. Sue reminded Abby of a caged lion, pocked and jerked around long enough for it to retreat itself into his or her own little world. But they would strike on the moment of weakness; when the steel cage bent just slightly, the screws tired and rusty, freedom freely in the air like pollination of flower-sperm during spring. When would the curtain fall and the devil be revealed? When would that bomb stop ticking and say 'Boom'?

Rossi sat down again, his hands loosely placed in his lap. "Cornett is dead."

There it was. A thunderstorm – it struck hard and merciless down on Sue and the strength in her eyes watered like the faint trace of tears that welled up. "What?"

"Felishia Cornett, she was your partner, right?" Abby noticed how he used past tense. It was a subconscious way of war, but effective, as Cal Lightman once taught her. Sue didn't move. "She's dead. She opened fire at the spa she worked and one of our agents took her down."

"And I guess that now, you want me to tell you all about it, right? Tell you about what we did and how and why? I've read the books, the interviews, the scripts about killers. I watched the documentaries, saw the shows. I'm not going to tell you anything, agent Rossi." Abby frowned and squinted to read Sue's face properly. There was something on it, something rigid, something adamant and determined, but she couldn't figure out what. It only appeared for a second and she knew it had no correlation with her words.

"I know, Peggy. I know. I study people like you for a living. I already know why you did it." Sue didn't reply, instead the thin line that were her lips said enough.

"You did it because you fought the war, for everybody else back home to remain safe and sound. And when you came back, broken and hurt, there was no statue, no memorial, nothing that should have been there to prove to the town that you went to war, that you risked your life for the people you see every day. And then your husband left you. And on top of all that; you didn't make Sheriff. You're stuck at Deputy."

"It's not fair."

"No. It isn't. But there are worse things in live."

A smile appeared on her charming face. "They know now."

They continued their game for fifteen more minutes. At times, Rossi was the cat, manoeuvring himself through the interview, thinking he was in control and suddenly, it all turned around and he found himself being the mouse. Tables were turned, only for them to go at it again. Sue was a police officer, she had done extensive research, she knew how this went. She knew what to say, what to do, how to play. And she was a female serial killer, and they are known not to ever confess. Hence Rossi ended it at 12.38 and the team that had been watching, headed back to the room where they had displayed their case to wrap it all up. A judge and later perhaps a jury, would have to determine what to do with her.

The door was open and Sheriff Donaldson paid them a visit, thanking him. He was shocked and startled to discover that the person that terrorised his community were actually two, and one of them was someone close to him. He looked her in the eye every single day and never once did he notice. Both JJ and Rossi kindly told him that he couldn't have known, but the question remained; what if he could have? Would all those lives destroyed be meaningless? Lost for no cause, torn apart for nothing? It reminded Abby of something Steven Biko once said: ' The power of a movement lies in the fact that it can indeed change the habits of people. This change is not the result of force but of dedication, of moral persuasion.' Would he have known, when writing that down, how many times he would be so inappropriately right?

There was some havoc as Sue was escorted out of the interview room and brought downtown, to her cell, when she kicked over a bin and started screaming. "You're all bastards, all of you! I hate you! You did this, you did this! Their blood is on your hands, this is all your fault! Those people didn't have to die if you weren't so stupid. And you!" The eyes of the lion caught Abby's face, Abby whom stood in the middle of the room closing case files and putting them all in storage boxes. "You! You traitor! You stupid bitch! You fought in the same war I did, you know what we saw, you know what we did! We're brothers and you betray me? How dare you! Rot in hell, whore, all of you rot in hell!"

Abby wanted to smile. But she found that she couldn't. Instead, she stared at the furious, boisterous woman until she left her eyesight and then continued placed the brown files in carbon boxes. With the files, she attached her thoughts, her emotions and put them away in the same box. When they were done, officers would take these boxes to Storage and put them away. The word 'Closed' would enable them from ever being opened again. Dust would consume them until fire or water emerged, or age ate all the contents, along with her thoughts and emotions.

"I don't know about you guys, but I could use some food." Prentiss laid a hand on her stomach to add to her words. Officers had taken all the boxes already and the room was cleaned out within two hours. No more pictures of dead people on the whiteboards. No more words laid down like paths into killer's minds. No more theories to lead to destruction and blood. The room seemed lighter, bigger, as if it suddenly had grown now that the pressing weight of murder was gone.

"Count me in, I could eat a horse." Abby raised her hand and rose from her chair, grabbing her warm coat.

"Anybody else?"

"We'll all go. Head to the airport afterwards." Hotch decided. None protested and more coats were grabbed. Abby went out in front of them, hoping to smoke half a cigarette before they would argue about the diner or restaurant of choice.

Outside, the air was cold and icy; it looked like Odessa was covered in a thin layer of whiteness, like dust. When she looked up, the sky was covered in bright, white-greyish clouds that indicated it was going to snow. Abby wrapped her scarf around her neck, the cigarette already lit sticking from between her faint blue lips.

"You okay?" Spencer approached her, his shoulders pulled up in the force of coldness, his hands buried deep in his pockets.

"You know Smartie, you guys don't have to constantly check on me. I'm not made out of glass, I'm fine."

"It's just-.. That were some pretty harsh words she said."

"Reid, she's a serial killer. There's something wrong with the wiring in her head. She had no clue of what she was talking about. Besides, if she knew about the Army and all that so well, she wouldn't have started killing what she fought for to protect." She took a large pull from her smoke and waited for as long as she could.

"Six minutes, Abby. Six minutes."

"Shut up. Every time you say it, from here on out, I'll be taking six minutes of your life." Reid chuckled. Abby smiled. All was well.

* * *

November.  
Sunday.  
Next day.  
00.24

"Scott? Are you asleep?"

They were back on the plane. It started to function as a second home to the team, like the hotel and motel rooms they stayed in. It was funny, really. With the SCU, Abby was either on the road working a case or working at the SCU department. She had created a talent, like her teammates, to always be able to find some work to do. She went home in the late hours of the night, hoping Bird would still love her and the nice neighbour wouldn't have fed him cookies instead of his normal dog food. Now, with the BAU, she was either working a case, at the BAU and Academy or on a plane. She flew with SCU, but to her knowledge, it wasn't a much as with the BAU. Then again, SCU handled a lot more cases 'close' to home, whereas the BAU flew across America as if it was a free joyride. Despite all this, she did spent more time at home, surprisingly. She wondered if Morgan would have anything to do with that. If she wasn't at home, she wouldn't be able to have her hot, sweaty, sweet passionate lovemaking. Well, lovemaking…

It was late and most of the team was sound asleep. Except for Abby whom, of course, couldn't sleep. And, of course, Aaron Hotchner. People asked her if she ever slept, but she wondered if he ever did. Abby laid curled up in one of the seats, her heat resting against the side of the plane, the coolness from the window gently caressing her face. She didn't need to open her eyes to know who stood next to her, calling her name, but she raised her hand to push the button of the light above her head. Her supervisor stood in the corridor path, one hand on the row of seats, the other in his pocket as he looked at her.

"I'm pretending."

Hotch sat down the moment she flicked on the light, her eyes still closed. "Is it working?"

She sighed. "Not really. You know, it's kinda funny. Our brains hold so much power over our bodies. Think schizophrenia, phobias, emotional pain, seeing things, psychological disorders. But it's impossible to trick it into falling asleep."

"Nightmares?"

She opened one eye briefly. "If I tell you I'm one of the blessed that don't actually have them that much, would you redirect me to a shrink? Because they've tried, bosses _and _shrinks, but they came up with the same conclusion."

"Good at compartmentalisation?"

"Emotionally detached." Did she just really hear him snort? She was too afraid to open her eyes to see a possible amused smile on his face so instead, she fooled herself and believed that he did snort.

"Free-running sleep?"

"Is that even in my file?"

"Probably. Can't you do something about that? What if you're working a case?"

Abby chuckled softly. "You're a hell of a profiler Chief, are you telling me that you have not noticed the amounts of coffee and energy drinks I drink?"

"Just be careful with that." There was an underlying tone in his voice, he meant it well, but just as she started to reinforce the stations and hold the barriers, he spoke again. "You did good."

Her eyes popped open halfly and she looked at him. Then she closed them again. "Morgan talked to you."

"He's concerned."

"About what?" '_Careful now, Abby, don't get too defensive…'_

"You."

"Hotch-" He cut her off and it made her open her eyes to look at him. "I know. I remember your rant. Doesn't mean we don't look out for each other."

"Sounds to me like you've appointed him to be my own personal guardian angel." There was sarcasm in her voice, but she couldn't care less. Last thing she needed was someone watching over her. Because if there were watching, their minds would start working and once they started working, they would profile her and find it all out. They would find him, and her, and both of them together breaking away just in time to look like caught teenagers on their mom's couch.

"If it makes you feel any better, he's Reid's guardian angel as well." Hotch's tone was light and amused and she studied his face for a few seconds. He was calm, his eyes less gloomy and dark, the muscles in his face relaxed. His voice was almost fatherly and soothing.

"It does. A little."

"So, how _was_ Atlanta." He emphasized the verb, adding pressure to find out how it really was.

Oh. Here they go again. "The usual."

"The usual?"

"Ya."

"What's 'the usual'?"

Abby now completely opened her eyes, no longer feeling drowsy. She got up from her half sitting, half laying position and her eyes became sharp and shrewd. Defensive. "What? Are you interrogating me now? I already told you, you should have called me. If you had, I would have been there." She wanted to scream and pull the hairs from her heard for being so stupid and letting him guide her like that. He made her feel at ease and then he pushed her down into the chair forcefully, turning on a big, large, bright light that blinded her, like they did with interrogations in old movies.

"You seemed different in Atlanta." He didn't even raise his hand in defence; he merely sat there and looked at her, his mien still at peace, but his eyes now curious.

"It's Atlanta."

"Scott, you get defensive every time someone asks you a personal question or Atlanta is brought up. That worries me."

"I like my job at Quantico." She looked away and mumbled the words. She knew where this was going and she knew she shouldn't say a thing, but she couldn't help it. She felt so extremely protected by this man that it scared her as well it made her want to flee into his arms. He always has had that effect on her.

"That's not what this is about. We're not here to judge or grade you. You're part of the team now."

"That's exactly what this is about. Because I loved my job in Atlanta. I earned my spot, people took me for who I was and I was myself there. Atlanta is my home. And I loved my job."

"You feel we don't take you for who you are."

"Ya." She hesitated, her eyes shifted over his exterior, his eyes still gazing down on her. "You don't appreciate me yet. And that's okay, I mean, I get it. But it's no fun being on the receiving end of suspicious looks and guardian angels."

"Scott, yes, it's been a rough start, but, suspicious?" He meant it. She could see it in his eyes and read it of his face. But there were a few wrinkles around his eyes which held a shade of precaution. It was then that she started to think he may know more than he let on and was set on finding out what he didn't know.

"Yeah. You're all fishing about how Atlanta was and how I felt about it."

"We're interested in you. It's part of the acceptance process."

"Nobody asked me how I knew, how I figured that out. That's interest. Not fishing about where I am with my head and if I'm up to it."

Finally, Hotch broke contact. He could draw her out in the open, but she could lash out when he was least expecting it. The entire conversation proved to Abby that she wasn't yet accepted into the team, despite what it looked like. She believed it wasn't that bad, but truth be told, she was wrong and she still had a long road ahead to be completely accepted.

"Picture this." Hotch glanced at her and she folded her hands on her stomach. "An apple tree orchard. The farmer has another orchard, on the side of the hill; peaches. Whilst working with the apple trees, a seed that came with him from the peaches orchard is accidentally planted in the apple orchard. It grows, blossoms and delivers it peaches, but it still is a peach surrounded by apples."

"I'm sorry." He startled her. And she didn't mind showing it as her eyebrows raised in shock, her eyes locking themselves with his. "For what?"

"Being the peach amongst the apples instead of the peach amongst the peaches."

"Frankly? I am too. But I'm here now. There must be a reason why the farmer put me here. I might as well blossom and make little peaches." She joked.

This time, she could see it and it was real. Hotch smiled. Not widely or grinning, but meekly and gentle. "You like your job at the BAU."

"I like my BAU-job. Plus, you guys have a bigger and nicer plane."

"How did you know?"

"I just did." There was a brief interlude and she could feel this odd string that connected them grow stronger. Strangely enough, she didn't mind. Hotch was a man she dearly respected and looked up to.

"Magic, spoons and Thanksgiving plans?"

"What can I say? I'm a peach."

Hotch lifted his body from the airplane seat after sending her one last twitch of his muscles that looked like a smile. "Try to get some sleep."

"Yes Chief."

He headed back to his own seat, but halted and turned back towards her.

"Oh, and Frankie?" She looked up, her eyes searching for facial expressions. "In the end, it's all a fruit."

She smiled, gratefully and apologetic. When he turned to leave again, she stopped him. "Hotch. Thank you."

Hotch only nodded and left her and her thoughts to line up in the boxing ring.

* * *

December.  
Sunday.  
Eight days later.  
22.09

Eight days. It had been eight days. The fire had consumed the forest and was now threatening to cross borders. They couldn't control it anymore; it was too hot, too strong, too vivid and too damn glorious. So they contained it. Drew lines of moist earth in the sand and hoped the fire wouldn't cross. It couldn't. Because then they would have a problem; then they wouldn't be able to hide it anymore. They had made a mistake. Participating in this affair was their first, continuing their second, but what they had done, eight days ago, was their biggest mistake. She could feel it. She was never clean enough, she showered twice, sometimes three times a day, cleaned her house every day, opened doors and windows to let the air filter. But it stuck around, the feeling, the scent, the memories, like a stain you couldn't get out of your favourite t-shirt. The only way was to let it burn and let the fire put itself out by eating everything it could find until nothing was left. She had trouble sleeping, nightmares and terrors surfaced, causing her to wake up in cold sweat and a racing heart. She was anxious, tensed. Her mind was all over the place. She had lost control of herself, just like he had, and they had lost control over their situation. It became real, touchable, and smoke had erupted from their crash site. People would soon notice, but the fire was too appealing.

Abby was walking home, leaving the dark, grim forest behind her, her dog Bird next to her. She was lost in her thoughts, her hands tucked in her pockets, her gaze at the ground, thinking, cogitating, contemplating. He had crossed the line. He had broken their unspoken seal of trust and concealment. What happened between them, their actions and their words, would stay between them. They were Vegas, and what happened in Vegas, stayed in Vegas. He brought Vegas home, delivered it at the doorstep of Aaron Hotchner and she felt threatened. She was the fire that had lost visual on and of their barriers. Fire heated her up and she couldn't think straight, flames licked the skin on her back and made her ache. Smoke clouded her path and she no idea where to go or where she was even at.

Birdie barked, tearing Abby from her mind and she looked up. The German shepherd jogged towards the tall figure standing on her porch, his scent reminiscent and safe. She halted as the man looked at her, his face careful but calm and soothing. His skin tensed when he saw her face and expression.

"Hey."

Abby approached her house and the man on her porch, grabbing a set of keys from her pocket. "Hey." Their voices were soft, not yet whispering, gentle and suave. Derek Morgan sighed as she passed him by and opened her door. She didn't slam it close, nor did she invite him in. She left it up to him, leaving to door open to let him decide for himself which way to go. He entered, Bird joyfully making his way to Abby, whom filled his bowls with food and water.

"Okay, I'm sorry. I was just-"

She cut him off. Cool and almost lulling. "Concerned. So I heard."

"Abby."

They stood in her kitchen, Abby on one side of the kitchen island, Derek on the other. She couldn't determine whether they were two gladiators lined up for a battle of life, or two high school sweethearts in the middle of a midlife-crisis. She was tired. And this man that stood in her kitchen, was everything she desired. He was everything she wanted and she didn't know why. Perhaps because she knew she could never have him, or secretly knew she only wanted him because she knew didn't actually want him. Abby was so confused, she felt like the world had suddenly turned, without a warning, and left was suddenly right and the other way around. Up was down, light was dark, air became water and it was hard to breath. She was tired. And there he was, Derek Morgan, the man that haunted her dreams. He re-lit that fire, that passion, set her skin on fire and made it tingle. A sparkle was ignited deep inside her chest and the soft, smooth glow started spread across her body.

"Why are you here?" She asked, tilting her head back, studiously observing his movements.

"What?" He looked confused, a tight knit in his brows on his handsome face. His dark, chocolate eyes covered every part that was her, seeing everything, devouring her.

"Why are you here?" She repeated her question.

"You know why I'm here." He stepped closer and the look in his eyes somehow made her feel calm. His entire body language was pacifying and allaying. Why? What was he doing? And what was he doing to her? Who was she becoming? Suddenly, a white-hot spear of anger and fury penetrated her body and the poisonous defence filled her veins. Her head was telling her to run and hide. But her legs wouldn't move. She could only lash out to him, using words, for her body was no longer obliging.

"Actually, I don't. And I think _you_ got your intentions mixed up. I don't like it when people smooth-talk their way into _my_ house and secretly profile me behind _my_ back."

He blinked. His body literally backed up an inch before he was able to recompose. His eyes narrowed and started burning. Fights. A head-to-head collision, just how she liked it. "For the record, I'm not here to profile you, nor to figure out why, who or what. I let it go, you should do the same."

"You're not profiling me? Who are you kidding! Who's Hotch kidding?" Abby raised her voice, deep lines appeared on her forehead as rage started to set in. She wanted to pull out her hairs, scream out her lungs and beat the deity, Greek God that stood before her and still, somehow, someway, had the same effect on her.

Morgan stepped forward and closed the distance. "I'm _not_ profiling you. Because if I was, I would ask you why the hell you're so suspicious, so keen set on the fact that we are. Why? What are you hiding? Why are you so defensive while you're trying so hard to be a part of this team. There is nothing at work or here at home that reminds you of Atlanta and your friends there, why?"

"Is that what keeps Hotch up at night? Why he spends all those long hours locked up in his office?"

"We are not after you. I don't care, you hear me? I don't care. I don't know what Hotch does in his office, but I do know that he has nothing to go home to and in his office, he can make a difference. And by the way, you started all of this."

"I did not!" She cried out indignantly.

Morgan chuckled shortly, the burning fire in his eyes slowly growing dim. "Where were you when_ you_ kissed _me_?"

"You'd been eyeing me for weeks! You came to 'check up on me'. What the hell was I supposed to make out of that?" What had happened to their argument? What had suddenly made their fight turn into a stupid little exchange of words, meaningless and pointless?

"Okay, fine." He did it again, the 'whatever you want', flat face, raising the palms of his hands to the sky for a brief moment. "If I tell you I started it, will you shut up, get your ass over here and kiss me?"

For a second, she was tempted. But then the lion roared and awoke her anger again. "Morgan, you went to Hotch! To _Hotch_!" She repeated the last part of her sentence, screaming even louder, sounding even more desperate and betrayed than she already looked. She had trusted him, confided in him and he told the one person that still made her feel pushed in a corner and be poked with sticks. She could handle Rossi, Hotch would be able to crack her and break her down. '_He isn't supposed to know.'_

"Because I didn't think I got through to you!" He was almost sounding as forlorn as she did.

"Through to me?"

"Abby, we're all looking up to you, even Reid. I heard Rossi talk to Hotch on the plane two weeks ago, even he is impressed by what you do, what you know, what you see. You're one of the best. But you keep bringing yourself down. You're overcompensating, trying too hard to fit in, judging yourself way too hard. You don't have to. We sleep together but that's as far as it goes for you-"

"Ya, that's called an affair, Morgan."

He waited patiently until she let him continue again, his face serene yet deep and penetrating. "And yet you still treat me as a complete stranger. Hostile and defensive. We've been at this for months, Abby, months. Nothing has changed."

"Okay, so what do you want?" They now stood opposite of each other, close, but not too close. There was no warm breath on her skin, but his body did radiate heat. She could smell him, the muscles of his face and his arms, shining as always, strong and compelling.

"I want to get to know you. Not because I'm in love or anything, but because I like you. As a friend, as a colleague."

"Whom just happen to sleep together?" Abby placed a hand on her hip and she felt herself give into him. Morgan knew exactly which button to press, what to say and his timing was perfect. How? And why?

"That's something totally different."

"If you were really interested in me, why didn't you ask how I knew? You're all only interested in how Atlanta was, if you really wanted to get to know me, why didn't you ask how I knew?"

"Your Unsub, Kingsley, he's Catholic, he collects spoons. I read the file, you talked to him, he owns a shop on the other side of the street, across the café. From each woman, an organ was taken, he collected them, like his spoons, for a Thanksgiving meal. It took you this long to find a connection because he killed around the end or the beginning of the month. There was no clear pattern until Prentiss mentioned Thanksgiving. He's carnivore."

Abby lunged forward, crashed her body into his, her lips feverishly pressed onto his, his lips parting immediately. Morgan was pushed again the fridge and his hand trailed up Abby's back as the other was placed at the back of her head. Before they knew, before they could realise, their clothes landed on the floor, torn apart and discarded. Their lines were once again crossed and they surrendered once again to the lust and passion inside their aching hearts, right under their itching skin.

Problem was, their lines were drawn in the sand, the wet earth ordered to contain the fire was around it, and fire consumed everything. Even lines. Like the waves of the sea, waves of flames seared the lines away, until they became a blur. And when they became a blur, like now, danger lurked around the corner like the shadows at Abby's feet and it took you by surprise like the truck coming from the side road you missed. Those lines, they would fade. And then they would be out of control, exposed and in the open like a deer caught in headlights.

* * *

"_We have perhaps a natural fear of ends. We would rather be always on the way than arrive. Given the means, we hang on to them and often forget the ends."  
_Eric Hoffer


End file.
